


The Q-Axis

by Calais_Reno



Series: Off-Axis [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassination, Childhood Memories, Don’t copy to another site, Espionage, Human Trafficking, M/M, Parallel Universes, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-11-12 00:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 81,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: In the year 2009, an assassin named John Watson leaves a stalled train and attempts to find his way to the surface, following the enigmatic directions of a homeless woman. Once above ground, he begins to notice puzzling discrepancies in the world around him. He calls this new reality the “Q-axis, a world that bears a question.” Meanwhile, an aspiring detective named Sherlock Holmes tries to solve a series of puzzling murders, all of which seem linked to a man who doesn’t exist.





	1. Things Might Look Different

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a favourite book of mine, 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami. The plot is my own, but I have borrowed the idea of parallel worlds and some details of the passage between such worlds, as well as the notion of two childhood friends separated by time.
> 
> John Watson has many aliases in this story. I’ll try to keep readers straight on who is who!

Watson closed his eyes, the motion and rhythmic clicking of the train gently lulling him. There was time to spare, and a few moments of calm might not hurt. He’d flown into Heathrow last night and been briefed, but hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep. Still, it had to be done. Now was the time, and he was the one to do it.

A mobile buzzed. Not his. The sound made him open his eyes, though. A man was sitting across from him, looking at his screen, now texting. Once more, he gave his fellow passengers a quick study. One could never be too vigilant.

Within John Watson lived something fanciful that often unspooled in idle moments. His brain, unleashed for a few minutes, would begin to spin stories about the people he saw, the small events he witnessed on buses and trains, conversations overheard while he was standing lonely in a crowd. It might have been a product of his unhappy childhood, the longing for the carefree lives he saw around him. In another reality, he might have been a writer. Then again, in that carefree reality, he might not have needed such an imagination.

At this moment, his mind was beginning to spin stories. Janacek had once told him, _I have more faith in your hunches more than most men’s reasoning, Alex. It is possible to know things without knowing why. This does not eliminate the need for evidence, but it can point the way, show us where we need to look. You should always examine your instincts._

He could make it a discipline, he had learned, to force himself to find evidence for his hunches, to ground his imaginative observations in something real. The exercise kept him alert, focused.

He flicked his eyes over a young woman in a charcoal grey business suit, wool blend. Polyester blouse, fake pearls. Coach bag knock-off. Skirt shorter than it ought to be. She reflexively tugged it down over her thighs. A tiny hole in her hose that by the end of the day would be a run. Probably a junior manager, maybe a solicitor, a younger associate making her way in a big firm. Trying to have an affair with her boss, perhaps.

In the next seat over, a young man, bad skin, closely cropped hair. No jewellery, no tattoos. Hospital worker, on his way home from shift. Smarter and more ambitious than his colleagues, he despises them for their materialism. Wishes he were engaged to someone who loved him, thinks about visiting a prostitute. Or a strip club.

Middle-aged woman with a child. _Grandmother?_ _Caregiver?_ Probably younger than she looked. Prematurely aged by smoking and hard living. The child was about six, blond hair, badly cut. Something about him seemed foreign. _Eastern Europe._ He watched the child for a moment until their eyes met. Something he recognised in that look, something…

_Focus. Don’t lose focus._

He pulled out his mobile, checked the time. Thirty minutes.

The boy fidgeted; the woman spoke into his ear.

He tensed, closed his eyes to regain the calm he needed.

No ear buds. Listening to music on the job was never an option for him. The level of attention he had to maintain did not allow it. Even so, music was running through his brain. He tried to identify it. Orchestral, grand, apocalyptic… the fateful thundering of tympani, the urgent blaring of horns… Russian, perhaps… it brought to mind a moment on the battle field: soldiers rushing past him as he stood, putting pressure on a wound that was bleeding far to quickly for his hands to matter. The sky speeding up, brightening with explosions of incoming… a life condensed into minutes... as before, he had held life in his hands that day. It eluded him.

He shifted in his seat, brushing against the man sitting next to him. It was an unwritten rule of public travel that if you accidentally touched someone once, you could pretend you hadn’t. No eye contact necessary. A second accidental brush called for a _sotto voce_ apology. Still no eye contact necessary. A third brush would no longer seem accidental and required brief eye contact, an apologetic smile, perhaps. Of course, there were times when the train was packed and everyone was jostling and bumping against each other. At those times, ignoring it was acceptable.

Watson had learned a long time ago that body language and gestures were more important than words in any language, and minded his own body at all times.

A cab would have been more comfortable, but despite the crowd of people, he preferred public transportation. Cab drivers often wanted to make small talk, something he preferred to avoid. And there was something comfortably anonymous about riding a bus or train, closely packed together with other people going about their lives. Perhaps it made him feel less isolated.

This thought brought him up short. Was he isolated? Had he minded?

Truth: he was isolated. Truth: Usually, he didn’t mind.

He preferred his own solitary company, his tidy flat with few distractions, no identifying details. He had no urge to speak to the people who sat next to him on the bus or train, only idle curiosity about their lives, no hunger to share his life with them.

But every now and then, he did mind. Other people went home to people. They shared their day, laughed about the bloke on the bus or complained about their boss. They watched the telly, checked social media, and went to bed. They argued and they made love. Sometimes he felt like the beggar at the door, hungry for something, unwilling to enter and take a seat.

The train jerked, and he reached for the bag that was firmly held between his feet. Looping the shoulder strap around his wrist, he sat back. Today he was dressed as a maintenance worker. Navy blue jumpsuit, work boots, a cap tucked into the pocket of his twill jacket. This guise allowed him to enter many doors, speak to many people, ask questions that no one challenged.

It would not really matter what he wore, though. _Such a gift_ , Janacek always said. _People simply don't notice you. You walk into a room, and it feels as if someone has left. Any disguise is almost superfluous._

The limp, though. People are trained _not_ to stare at handicaps, he knew. It’s rude. _You can feel sorry for the cripple, but you must never stare._ That’s what he’d been told, when he was a careless child. People remember their childhood lessons, instinctively understand where the lines are that you don’t cross. _Don’t stare at cripples,_ he’d been taught. _Don’t say the word ‘cripple.’_

And here he was, a cripple himself. The limp did make him more noticeable; it was a detail people might remember. At least it wasn’t bad enough that he needed a cane. When he’d first returned, he’d had to use a cane, and learned to hate the looks of pity. He gave up the cane, but did not conquer the limp. He hated it, hated to have to incorporate it into his persona. But maybe it gave him an advantage in that it made him look harmless. Nobody expected a cripple to fight back.

He was born ordinary: a most common name, John, a face that easily blended into others. There were hundreds of John Watsons in the telephone directory, thousands of people with blond hair, blue eyes, and a forgettable face. Had he been born with a different name, a less ordinary name, he might have become someone different, a man people would take notice of. A man like that would not be riding the underground this morning, armed to do what he was about to do.

Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been if he’d just been the doctor he started out to be. Following medical school, he’d taken a specialisation in trauma surgery, after which he’d signed up for the army, as promised, to pay off his debts. His first thought was of all the A&E units he’d visited as a child. _An accident,_ his dad always said. _Such a clumsy child._

He wasn’t clumsy. He’d gone on to become a gymnast, compact and coordinated as a ninja. And he wasn’t weak. He’d played rugby, crashing into other boys with a violence no one expected from such a small boy. But the A&E was where he’d first thought of becoming a doctor. All those patient, caring faces, smiling and nodding and handing him over to his dad. He’d been afraid to tell, but he vowed to become a doctor. When he’d graduated from medical school, there was no one to congratulate him for surviving childhood and becoming a self-supporting adult.

Life moved forward. When he enlisted in the army, routine aptitude testing sent him to the office of the man who called himself Janacek.

It was not his real name. That much was clear. Real names were a risky extravagance in the unmarked corridor where he stood before a door labeled with the number 29. He knocked and, hearing a voice bid him _enter,_ opened the door and stepped inside.

The man was tall and thin, with a bit of a paunch, not as old as forty, ginger with a prematurely receding hairline. Unremarkable, except for the pair of uncannily sharp grey eyes that were sizing him up. They gripped one another’s hands cautiously. They sat and regarded one another, talking of ordinary things for a few moments.

“Military intelligence,” the man told him. “Your scores were high.”

“MI6?” he’d asked.

Janacek smiled. It was the same smile (Watson later learned) that he used for most occasions — hollow. A disguise. “Our role is not so… _rigidly_ defined.”

Watson took the job. He had no family, not since Harry, and that was so long ago that it sometimes didn’t seem real. And though he had no thirst for revenge, her death was the thing that had stilled any desire in him for an ordinary life. He could never be normal, not after the childhood they had lived, not after the way she died.

Once he signed on the dotted line, he became a man with no name, many aliases. Janacek, with his fondness for Russian composers, gave him the code name _Borodin._

The bullet he took in Afghanistan gave him a limp might have ended his career, left him an invalided soldier. But he was not MI6, and Janacek still found him useful. They became partners, complementing one another in their strengths and weaknesses. In truth, Janacek was the only person he trusted.

He needed to be useful. Alone was where he lived; useful kept him alive.

The train lurched again, this time to a halt. All the lights in the car went out but one, the emergency light. They were underground, between stations. The train ground to an unscheduled halt in the dark, a steaming, oily-smelling blackness.

Without letting the wariness leak into his face, Watson went on full alert. The likelihood that he’d been followed was slim, but if there had been a lapse, he would surely be targeted. He had thought of death many times, in many different circumstances. It was part of his training to expect it. Even so, he didn’t fancy bleeding out on the floor of an underground train with a car full of strangers watching.

The other passengers were frowning, looking around. Mostly mild annoyance, not fear. They were used to delays, obediently waited for the announcement.

The Piccadilly Line was a deep-level train, nearly thirty metres below the surface. Watson knew precisely where he was. Russell Square was overhead, Holborn lay behind and King’s Cross St Pancras ahead. If he could get to the surface, he could walk to his destination. Standing, he shouldered his bag.

The other passengers stared at him, curious now. They would remember him, perhaps. Or not. He had a forgettable face.

He smiled. “Trainman,” he said, gesturing to his uniform. “Sit tight. I’ll find out what’s happening.” He strode towards the exit, found the emergency release and slid the door open.

“Mummy, why is that man getting off the train?” a little girl asked her mother in a loud voice. “Can we get off, too?”

“No, love. He’s a trainman,” she explained. “He knows how to fix the train so it will go again.”

The girl’s younger brother chimed in. “I want to see him fix the train.”

Watson slid the door closed behind him. No one would follow. Commuters sped through the underground every day, thinking nothing of the limbo-space they were traveling through. They thought of their appointments, their work, the errands they would run when they came out of the station. They didn’t think about the dark world around them, how far below the surface they were, or all the layers of history between them and the street. Sitting in a dark tunnel, people could be counted on to wait for someone to tell them what to do.

He walked along a narrow ledge until he came to a turn where the tunnel branched off into darkness. An abandoned route, no doubt.

 _Odd. Don’t remember this one,_ he thought. Every station and route was mapped out in his mind, information that might never come in handy, but when he needed it, there it was.

Stairs led down into the abandoned tunnel. He didn’t recall there being any lower levels here, but perhaps it had never been used. He’d heard of tunnels dug and then abandoned, but had never come across one before. Curious, he took out his pocket torch, went a few steps lower, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He saw the tracks below, clearly unused for years. His ears picked up sounds, water dripping, the distant rumbling of trains above, the echo of footsteps on stone. Someone was here, approaching.

“Maintenance. Who’s there?” he said.

A woman stood at the bottom of the stairs. As the light from his torch swept over her, he saw that she had long grey hair hanging loose about her shoulders and was dressed in cast-offs. A homeless person. He relaxed slightly. The homeless did what they had to do to live. He did not begrudge them whatever spot might become a home.

“Here,” she said. “Come.”

He came down the stairs cautiously. “Ma’am,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“You’ll want the exit,” she said. “It’s not marked. Come along.”

Trusting his well-honed instincts, he followed. “Where does this lead?”

She turned and looked at him. An old woman, probably demented. “Well, now, that depends. Where are you going?”

He pointed up. “I just need the closest way up to the street.”

She shrugged. “Things are not what they seem,” she said.

“What are you saying?” He stopped.

“I just mean that things might look different, up there.” She smiled and gestured upwards. “Don’t let appearances fool you.”

He thought about what this might mean. Appearances were always deceiving. He was trained to look for deceit. Perhaps this woman was one of Janacek’s people, sent to warn him. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Mrs Green.” She smiled. “Green like peas. Come along, then.”

He followed, keeping her in the beam of his torch. Subconsciously, he counted steps. It seemed like they were moving northeast, but he found that he had become somewhat disoriented when he went down the tunnel.

“Here,” she said at last. He raised his light and saw an abandoned stairwell going up about thirty feet, ending in a doorway. “Be careful. It’s sturdy enough, but in the dark you might lose your balance.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Do you know what street this is?”

“Bernard.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t forget what I said.”

He nodded and began to ascend the stairs. He was glad for the torch; there were exposed wires and places where the handrail had broken off. When he reached the door at the top, he looked back down. She was still watching him.

“Thank you,” he said, waving. Russell Square, the door said. As he pushed it open, his shoulder twinged painfully. He rotated it, trying to loosen the spasm as he got his bearings. There were more stairs leading to street level. Once he ascended from the station, he headed towards the hotel. He checked the time on his phone. Fifteen minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to spend a lot of time riding underground trains and els in New York and Chicago. I have not ridden the Underground in London. References in this story to emergency exits, maintenance walkways, and abandoned underground tunnels are entirely a product of my imagination.


	2. Something Else

Sherlock woke up on the floor. It was his own floor, he noted. Dirty blue rug, scuffed legs of the chair he suspected he had fallen out of. It might be daytime. Yes, it was. The blinds were closed, but there were gaps where greyish sunlight was dribbling in. Not street lights. Yes, it was day.

Someone was pounding on his door. Not Mycroft, surely. He didn’t pound. And he’d just recently visited and dropped several half-expressed threats.

_If you cannot figure out a steady income…_

_If you persist in this imaginary career…_

_If you continue to do this to yourself…_

Rehab. He would rather die than go through that again. Explanations were superfluous. Mycroft had graduated from Oxford at nineteen, hadn’t needed chemicals to enable him to do that. Sherlock had attended Cambridge, not sticking around long enough to leave with a degree. Clearly, chemicals were to blame for Sherlock’s failure to launch into a successful career.

The pounding continued. Was the rent due? Hadn’t he just paid that?

“Oi, Sherlock! You in there?”

Lestrade.

Sherlock pulled himself up, noted that he was wearing track bottoms and a dirty t-shirt. “I’m here,” he said loudly. Not quite up for shouting this early in the morning. He checked his mobile.13:47. _Well, afternoon then_.

Resigned to hear whatever the DI might want, he opened the door, gestured for Lestrade to enter, and stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The small sink area with a hotplate hardly qualified as a kitchen; basically, the flat was one room.

Lestrade stood with his arms folded, studying the younger man.

“I assume you’ll join me for a cuppa,” Sherlock said, noting that the DI was listing slightly to one side. _Pulled a muscle in his back playing handball with a younger colleague; put up a good fight but ultimately was trounced_.

“I assume you’re using again.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I miscalculated.”

The DI frowned. “You know I can’t use you if you’re doing drugs.”

“I’m not _doing_ drugs. I am _using_ drugs to correct a problem. The fact that the drugs I use are not legal is inconvenient and irrelevant.”

“Not irrelevant to me, Sherlock.”

He scowled at the DI. “I had an argument with my brother. It was necessary to… right myself. And I will not continue to apologise when you clearly do not have a case requiring my attention. Bring me an _eight_ every week, and I will have no need for drugs. Why are you even here, when you evidently have nothing for me?” He handed Lestrade a mug of tea.

“I’m here because — contrary to what you think — I care about you. You’re not just a bloody crime-solving machine. You’ve been out of rehab for a month. I said I would help you stay clean. That’s why I’m here.” Taking the tea, Lestrade sat in the chair that was not stacked with papers and books, topped off by a laptop.

Sherlock moved the tower of clutter and took the other seat. “The last case,” he said. “The body in the alley.”

Lestrade shrugged. “No drugs, no alcohol. Arrhythmia, the coroner said, leading to sudden cardiac arrest.”

“Idiots. It was something else. They simply don’t know what.”

“It’s not as if you have an explanation. No sign that he was attacked. No injuries.”

“He didn’t die in that alley. Might that not be relevant?”

“Sherlock, you can’t prove—”

“Oh, did someone stop by, see the body, and helpfully clean the soles of his shoes? Mr X did not walk into that alley on those shoes. He'd been incapacitated.”

“Incapacitated— how? No injuries. No drugs. Did he volunteer to be carried? And how the bloody hell would somebody carrying a body not be noticed?”

“No CCTV,” said Sherlock. “There are places in London where one can carry a body quite unnoticed.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock sighed. “What I’m saying is that we can make some deductions which yield possible avenues for investigation. The person who did this was most likely male, strong enough to carry a body from somewhere else, more than a stone’s throw, I’m guessing. And he must have been aware that he was not on camera.”

“Okay,” said the DI. “Not much, but I’ll play. He could have seen the man in distress and tried to carry him to safety. The guy dies, and he gets scared, runs off.”

“He carried him into an _alley_. Hardly a safe place to bring someone _in distress_.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Maybe he intended rob him. That would explain why he hared off.”

“Then why didn’t he rob him? His wallet— with money, credit cards, ID— was still in his pocket. Clearly a false identity, by the way. Why haven’t you figured out who he really was?”

“Sherlock, I know you’re right. The fellow was murdered. Probably a gang thing. We’ve been told to back off and we have.”

“Ridiculous. _Gang thing?_ I’m not stupid, Lestrade. It was a hit, but not the usual kind. They didn’t want it to look like a hit. Somebody knows who he is — somebody who makes a lot more money than you do.”

The DI drained his cup and stood. “Wish I knew. Look, I’ll call if I get something interesting. Just… try and stay sober.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “I’m going to figure it out.”

 

He sat, wrapped in his thoughts as the afternoon passed. He wasn’t thinking specifically about the body in the alley or any of his experiments. His mind was adrift. Sometimes he just needed to see where his train of thought would take him.

For as long as he could remember, his brain had not worked like other people’s brains. Even as a child, he observed and drew conclusions — and people hated him. He was good at police work, but never could have functioned within a police department. For a long time, he hadn’t been sure what he was made for. Maybe there was no place for a mind like his.

School had been hell. It was not only students who bullied him; teachers treated him as if it was his own fault that he thought differently, reacted as if he was deliberately being difficult. His father seemed to agree. His mother had defended him, but even she could not change the entire education system. The world was not a friendly place for people like Sherlock.

He wasn't good at socialising, which meant that he withdrew from everyone.This ensured that he never made friends, never learned to socialise. Even as an adult, he'd made no real friends.

Once, he'd almost had a friend. It was one of the schools his parents tried, one that accommodated _gifted_ children like him. He was nine. The other children were beastly, perceiving his difference easily and zeroing in on his weaknesses. They could reduce him to a howling mess at will. For them, it was entertainment. If the lesson was dull, they could always provoke Sherlock to hit someone or to start screaming and rolling on the floor.

Then the new boy arrived. Overly long blond hair, bottomless blue eyes. The smallest one in the class, he was clearly a charity case. His clothes— cheap and too new— betrayed his poverty, his recent rescue by social services.When he spoke, his north country accent gave them another opening for ridicule.

Unlike Sherlock, though, he did not respond to their taunts. He sat by himself, working on his lesson, quietly asking the teacher for help if he was stuck. Sometimes Sherlock watched him when he was reading; his face was wonderfully expressive at those times, when he didn’t notice that anyone was watching. At other times, he kept his face carefully blank. Only his eyes revealed any depth. And the misery Sherlock saw there mirrored his own.

Though he might have found a friend in the new boy, Sherlock held back, afraid that the boy, though ostracised himself, would not want to be friends with _the freak_. They each sat alone, lonely in opposite corners. After several weeks of baiting him, the ringleaders of the class decided that the new boy was dull and went back to provoking Sherlock. They acted as if the boy didn’t exist.

The boy did not make it through the entire year. Sherlock might not have retained him in his Mind Palace, but for one event.

It was some weeks after the winter holidays, the weather still cold but dry enough for them to have recreation outdoors, on the playground. The girls were jumping rope or sitting on the swings, chatting. Around the corner of the building, out of sight of the teachers (who were not paying attention in any case), several boys cornered Sherlock and began taunting him. Their goal was to make him strike out so that they could justify hitting him back.

Every time he attempted to evade them, they circled around like hyenas. His heart pounded and he became more and more upset. They kept closing in on him as if they meant to touch him. He hated being touched, they knew, but they could not hit him first. They taunted. _Freak. Retard. Psycho._

He began to cry and the boys, smelling blood, began to chase him back and forth. He fell, ripping his trousers and scraping his knees. On the ground, he hugged himself and rocked, moaning and trying to soothe himself.

Then, while he sat rocking and keening, something happened.

He heard a voice. _Get away from him, you mother fuckers! Leave him the fuck alone!_

These words, spoken to mostly upper class children brought up not to use language like that where adults might overhear, had an immediate effect on the gang. They stopped, their mouths open, eyes wide.

Opening his eyes cautiously, Sherlock saw a pair of too-long trousers bunched up over cheap trainers.

_You’re a freak, too,_ the leader said. He sounded a bit uncertain, as if no one had ever challenged him before. Kids began to gather around, watching, curious to see what would happen.

The boy stepped towards him. “I’ll bust ya,” he said. “I’ll cut your dick off and shove it up your arse, you bloody wanker.” These words echoed in the sudden quiet of the schoolyard.

Fists clenched in front of him, the small boy took a step towards the ringleader. Sherlock scrambled out of the way and watched. The ringleader raised his fists as well, but kept his distance.

It was at this point that the adults realised that something was going on. Hands separated the boys, dragged Sherlock to his feet. Everyone started talking at once, telling their version of the events. And the new boy was blamed, his words quoted to incredulous teachers. Everyone made sure it was his fault. He was brought to the office. Phone calls were made.

And Sherlock said nothing. He waited for someone to call him to the office and question him, but no one did. It gradually dawned on him that he would not have to inform on the bullies. But even as relief washed over him, he began to feel ashamed of himself.

Before the afternoon ended, he slipped out of the classroom and walked to the office. Alone, the boy sat in a chair in the principal’s office, his feet barely touching the floor. Sherlock crept to the door and peeked inside.

The boy raised his head, looked straight into his eyes.

Sherlock hadn’t thought what to say, or whether he ought to say anything. He stared at the boy.

The boy stared back. His eyes, though red, were dry. He sniffed and licked his lips.

_I’m such a coward,_ Sherlock thought. _I should have said, should have told the teacher you didn’t start it. But I can't, you see. They would blame me if I did. They would torture me._

The boy slid off the chair and walked towards him. Looking up at Sherlock, he reached out and took his hand. Their eyes met. For a long time, the boy held his hand tightly and stared at him.

The sound of a door closing in the office startled them. The boy dropped his hand, and Sherlock ran.

At first, he was embarrassed, glad that his classmates hadn’t seen him holding the boy’s hand. But much later, when he could still feel the warm pressure of the boy’s fingers, he remembered the blue eyes looking at him. And though he didn’t understand what it meant, he knew the boy was telling him something. Or maybe asking him something. It was unsettling.

The boy did not come back to school after that. Sherlock supposed that he was sent to another school. He heard one of the teachers talking about him to another teacher, saying that he was a foster child, his mother dead and his father in prison for something she said so quietly that Sherlock could not hear. He saw the face of the other teacher though, when she heard this. He saw her cover her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide. _Poor thing_ , she said. _What a world._

These things remained in his Mind Palace, in a room labeled _John._

_John Watson, b. 6 July 1975. d. 31 May 1985._

_Rest in Peace._


	3. A Bit of Pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name Glossary:  
> Watson is using an alias here: Ian MacLeod.   
> His mentor and professional partner is a man he calls Janacek. (Pronounced: Yahn-a-check)  
> Janacek calls him Alex.

Watson walked through the front doors of the hotel and headed straight for the spa without stopping to talk to anyone. He had studied the floor plan in detail and knew where every exit and stairwell was located, how many steps between the spa and the lift. The small changing room with lockers was empty. He stripped off his jacket and jumpsuit, revealing close-fitting track bottoms, black, and a grey zip-up. He hung his jacket from the hook inside the locker, his cap over it. Then he rolled his jumpsuit and put it in the locker along with his boots. Sitting on the bench, he put on a pair of Adidas.

He checked his bag, making sure everything was there. He had packed it the night before, right after talking to Janacek. This job would be tricky, as it involved convincing the target to do things that natural caution forbade, but at least everything else was taken care of. The hotel had been called, the appointment confirmed. The table would be delivered to the room and set up ahead of time. All he had to do was show up and play his part.

One-twenty. He closed his eyes and sat on the bench for a long moment, breathing slowly, mentally walking through each step of the plan. If there were any hitches, he could not afford fumble time. He had to be ready to recalculate and carry on in a split second. He breathed until he felt completely calm, then opened his eyes and stood.

Every step had been perfectly choreographed. He checked his appearance in the mirror. Cap off, he dampened his hands and ran them through his hair, then took a bit of gel and a comb to finish. His hair was a bit longer on top than usual, much spikier than he liked. _Gay_ , he thought. It worked. He looked like a massage therapist. He smiled at himself, then frowned. Schooling his expression was not something the military taught him. It was a survival skill, learned in childhood.

For a moment, he caught a glimpse of his father in his own face. Weary eyes, steel blue. No feeling in those eyes. _No, I'm not him_. The vision faded.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he closed the locker and attached his padlock.

No one paid any attention to him as he stepped onto the lift and pressed the button for the third floor. On the ride up, he kept his head down, his gaze trained away from the camera. Lifts often had surveillance these days, but the resolution was usually poor and the angle always from above. As long as he kept his face in profile, he would not be recognisable. No one was in the hallway when he stepped off and walked towards room 317. 

He composed himself as he walked down the corridor, slipping into character. Stopping at the door, he drew a breath and knocked. When the door opened, his expression was interested, pleasant. “Mr Jones? I’m Ian MacLeod, the therapist.”

Jones was a not tall man, but his frame and posture said that he had once been athletic. Now all that muscle had turned to flab. Balding, patchy eczema, sun-damage. Mid-fifties. Former rugby player, undoubtedly. Looking at him with a doctor’s eyes, Watson could tell he was unwell. Joint pain, back pain, digestive problems.

“They told me you do acupuncture as well,” he said.

Watson stepped into the room. The table was set up, he noted. “I’m licensed for acupuncture, massage, and physio. What areas are troubling you?”

“Lower back, mostly. And shoulders.”

“Anything else?”

He snorted. “Having a lot of reflux lately, though I don’t expect you to fix that.”

“What medications are you taking?”

The man gave him a list which ranged from statins to NSAIDS to proton pump inhibitors and antacids.

Watson gave him a compassionate smile. “I’d like to check you over, then I can give you a general massage, ending with some trigger point therapy. That should take about an hour.”

It would take a half an hour, he estimated, to accomplish his task. At least the bloke would be relaxed before it happened.

“Lie face down,” he instructed him. “Don’t turn your head to the side. Your neck should be straight, your face resting in the hole. Good. Position your arms like this, bent at the elbows.”

“I had acupuncture once,” Mr Jones said as he got into position. “For my neck.”

“It has been proven effective for gastritis and reflux as well,” he said. “We can try that if you like. Are you comfortable now?”

They didn’t chat. Watson had strong hands; his client began to relax at once. He worked over the man’s shoulders and back. He reminded himself that this man traded children as a commodity. He’d learned years ago to suppress the compassion he instinctively felt towards people in pain. Sick people could be evil, too.

“Mr Jones,” he said. “Would you like me to place some needles?”

He nodded. “Wherever you think. I’m sure your hands have already figured out my problem spots.”

Keeping his voice soothing, he touched the man’s neck and described where he would place each needle. “You’ll feel a bit of pressure as it goes in, nothing extreme. It should not be painful.”

The man grunted. “Get on with it.”

He opened his bag and took out a long needle. It was not an acupuncture needle. It was longer, a bit thicker, and it had a wide, flat knob on the end. With his fingers, he searched for the right spot on the man's neck. There it was. He poised the needle at the exact place, at the precise angle. “Just a bit of pressure,” he murmured. “Relax.” Using the palm of his hand, he firmly pressed the knob, letting the needle sink into the man’s brain stem, into the spot that stopped his breathing. The man did not stir.

He’d taught himself this. No other person, to his knowledge, could find that spot by touch and insert the needle at the correct angle. It was not always the easiest or best method, depending on the circumstances. It required social finesse. He had to gain the trust of his _client_ , and have privacy to work unobserved. Posing as a therapist was the perfect cover. He’d killed many people with a sniper rifle, several by strangulation, a few with the precise stroke ofa knife, but this was his preferred way to take a life. It was painless and quick, and so far, no one had noticed anything strange about the bodies of the half dozen people he’d killed this way. Mr Jones was number seven.

He held a square of gauze over the hole made by the needle for several minutes, staying calm, pressing lightly so as not to leave a fingerprint. The first time, he’d felt like fleeing, his hands sweaty, his breath rapid. Now he was almost zen-like as he held the gauze in place, breathing slowly in and out. No one was coming; he could wait.

Finally he opened his eyes. He lifted the gauze; the hole was a tiny red pinprick, nearly invisible. It would be virtually undetectable to eyes that might examine the body hours from now. Mr Jones looked as if he were sleeping peacefully. He checked for a pulse in his neck. Nothing. It was time to put the room in order.

He and Janacek had debated about how to stage this one. The last one he’d had to leave in an alley when the police arrived too soon. Not what he’d preferred. This one he would simply put to bed, lying on his stomach to account for any blood that had begun to pool in his abdomen. By the time the door was opened, the hole would be invisible. Cardiac arrest would be assumed. Idiopathic, of course, though the man’s appearance suggested heart disease.

He put on a pair of latex gloves. Once he had wrangled Mr Jones into the king-sized bed and tucked in the bedding, he went into the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and wiped down the table, the door, and the doorknob, eliminating any fingerprints he might have left. He hung the towel in the bath.

Then he folded the table and set it against the wall in the hallway. He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob. This done, he gathered his tools, counting to be sure he hadn’t left anything, surveying the room to make sure he hadn’t touched anything else. He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror ( _still gay_ ), then looked at Mr Jones.

“Pleasant dreams,” he said. “Not that you deserve it.”

Then he was out of the room, down the corridor, into the lift, walking out into the lobby. Once inside the spa, he opened his locker, stepped into his jumpsuit and boots, smoothed his hair down and put on his cap. His expression changed subtly. _Not gay._

He took the spa exit into a side street and walked towards the nearest station. Once he sat on the train, he took out his mobile and typed his check-in message. _See you soon._

A reply: _Dinner tomorrow, my club._

 

As soon as he entered the flat he began to pull off his clothing. It was probably a vestige of his conscience, he’d decided, that he felt the need for a hot shower with antiseptic soap after killing someone.

He no longer asked himself why he did this. He had long ago worked out any moral conflicts he might have had over taking the lives of men who bought and sold human beings. Janacek had explained it to him: _Society is better off without certain individuals, yet ridding ourselves of them is problematic. We are the government’s left hand. The right hand does not acknowledge what we do._ Crime syndicates had their hired guns, their wetwork personnel. He was their legal, necessary, but unacknowledged counterpart. It gave them a certain freedom, he realised, to be able to go after criminals without worry about accountability, and he understood that Janacek had inspired confidence in someone high up for their unit to even be able to exist. Someone in the larger organisation was aware of their directive, but Watson did not know exactly who that might be.

At the beginning, when he counted his assassinations on the fingers of one hand, he’d had to stay in bed for twenty-four hours afterwards. He didn’t drink, and he didn’t cry. He just lay like a zombie under the covers, making his mind blank.

Now he dimmed the lights, kicked off his shoes, and walked around the flat for ten minutes, shaking out the stress. His shoulder ached a bit, no doubt from moving the body to the bed. The man was at least seventeen stone. Watson was just over ten, though most of that was muscle. He stretched his shoulders, felt the twinge on the left side. After five minutes, he noted that his leg didn’t hurt. _Odd,_ he thought. Stress always made it worse, and after a job, he could count on his limp worsening for several days.

His flat was small, spartan. Neutral in colour, nothing calling out any personal interests. Just like the man himself. He had a collection of CDs (mostly classical, gifts from Janacek), a few books (medical texts mainly, several historical works), but few volumes of what could be called literature. Janacek had sent him a volume of short stories once.

He kept his rooms uncluttered, spotless. That required daily wipe downs of the surfaces, nightly resolving of books and CDs, and a weekly visit from a maid. His mental state required this degree of order. It was not that he expected anyone to show up here, digging through his few possessions, looking to learn something about him. It was a vestige of living in foster homes for many years, being accused of bringing bugs, taking up space, causing a mess. He carried minimal baggage, left scant evidence of his existence.

Normally he stretched and did a few callisthenics on returning home, but not tonight. He turned on some music, lit a few candles, and took his antiseptic shower in the dimly-lit bathroom. Drying himself, he still noted some pain when he rotated his left shoulder. He’d ask his trainer about it tomorrow. He inhaled the steam, feeling more relaxed. Wrapping himself in a dressing gown, he ordered in some sushi.

Though he was brought up in the wilds of Scotland, Watson found something very clean and pure about Japanese food. He generally ate lightly, but after a job was over, he found he needed to be extra careful about what he ate and drank for a few days. Janacek understood and always waited at least twenty-four hours to hear his report.

He poured himself a glass of wine. He’d been listening his way through all of the Mozart piano concertos. Usually the complex intelligence of those pieces stilled his mind into quiet, but tonight he felt nostalgic, self-indulgent. He selected Tchaikovsky’s first String Quartet, the Andante Cantabile movement, the one that drained all the tension from his mind and left him with a comfortable sadness. Janacek found Tchaikovsky too sentimental, preferring the clarity and precision of Bach and Mozart.

The melancholy of the movement gradually shut his eyelids. His mind time-traveled back to a school where he’d briefly been a student when he was nine. Overall, the experience was not pleasant. But he remembered one classmate who’d played the violin exceptionally well.

Watson was the son of a musician, one who’d failed to provide for his family and fallen back on less legal ways to earn a living. As a child, he’d sung at the command of his father, who told him that if he did not get tips, he would not eat. It hadn’t mattered; he was used to being hungry. The music was like food to him.

He remembered the boy in his class who’d played violin; hearing him play had stirred him to want to learn violin. He’d never heard anyone play like that. His father was in jail then, safely locked away from him and his sister. In that school, he felt as safe as he ever had. The children who taunted him did not concern him. He already knew that the future was something he could save up for, prepare himself to meet, and win. Everything else, he held at a distance.

But he thought of that boy nearly every day, hearing the haunting notes of his violin soaring above all the pain of the present world. Such a gift could not, _would_ not be destroyed by mean-spirited children. The boy had talent; he would undoubtedly grow up to be the kind of musician who made people weep. Not the kind who played for tips and sold his children for whiskey.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

 

He slept well, but woke early, feeling as if his shoulder had taken a bullet. Lying in the darkness, he rotated it gently, trying to discern the source of the pain. In his mind, he went through his activities in the hotel room. The massage had been nothing more vigorous than usual. The body, somewhat bulky and heavy, but not out of his range. At the gym, he worked his upper body muscles according to a fixed schedule. Since he never knew when he would have to lift a large body, he had to maintain readiness. He could not recall any twinges or sudden pains when lifting the body to the bed.

He began to knead his shoulder with his right hand. Under his t-shirt, the skin felt bumpy and irregular, painful to the touch. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he made his way to the loo.

_No limp._ Yawning, he emptied his bladder and flushed. Then he turned to face himself in the mirror. His hair was a bit askew; it had been mostly dry when he retired to bed, but even a bit of dampness meant he would have to wet it before he went out to face the world. Or, better yet, buzz it down to a stubble. He ran his hands through it; his shoulder twinged.

_Damn._ Gingerly, he pulled his shirt over his head and leaned forward to examine his shoulder.

What he saw made him gasp and take a step back from the mirror. A scar, impressive in both size and appearance, covered much of the area. He took the hand mirror and looked at his back. Entrance wound, exit wound.

Impossible.

Obviously, a bullet wound, old, healed over, but leaving damage on the inside.

His first thought: _I’m hallucinating. I’m not fully awake, and my mind is playing tricks on me._

He splashed his face with cold water, took deep breaths until he felt calm enough to look again. The scar was still there.

His second thought: _I have amnesia. Probably anterograde. I was in an accident, received a serious wound in my shoulder, and probably my head as well, and have no recollection of it. I have probably awakened every day for…_ the scar looked months old, possibly a year. _I’ve been awakening every day and seeing this, trying to figure it out._

This thought prompted two actions. First, he checked the date. That was all right. The job had been just yesterday. He knew there was no shoulder scar then. It was too large, too painful to miss.

Second, he began searching through his small desk for a note. If he had anterograde amnesia, the first thing he would have done on realising it would be to write himself a note, explaining what had happened, before he forgot again.

Finding no note in his desk, he opened his laptop and flipped through his documents. He rarely wrote anything, even less frequently saved anything, so it was a short search. Nothing.

His third thought: _Things are not what they seem. Don’t let appearances fool you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've left a couple easter eggs here from the novel 1Q84:
> 
> The military-sounding music Watson hears on the train in Chapter 1 is Leos Janacek's Sinfonietta. Janacek was a Czech composer and folklorist of the late 19th / early 20th century. This music is playing on the cab radio in Chapter 1 of 1Q84. 
> 
> Mrs Green in the tunnel: her name is a tribute to Aomame, the heroine of the novel, whose name means "green peas."


	4. A Good Assassin

The man lay face down in the bed, his head turned to the side. As Sherlock pulled on a pair of latex gloves, he frowned at the peaceful face.

“If it hadn’t been for the other one, the body in the alley, we would have dismissed this as a natural death,” admitted Lestrade. It was his way of saying he’d been wrong, Sherlock knew. These deaths were not natural events. Someone had murdered two men, probably more than two, and nobody would have thought any more about it, had Sherlock not insisted.

“No fingerprints,” he added. “Knew what he was doing.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. “Successful murderers usually do.” He studied the room, walking the perimeter. Few people had been in the room since the body was discovered. Because of the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the door, the weekend shifts of housekeeping and desk staff, it had taken nearly forty-eight hours before anyone noticed that the man in 317 had not left his room. By then, the smell was noticeable in the hallway.

Fortunately, the police were called before any of the staff opened the door. Everyone knew what would be found inside. The housekeeping staff were upset, the woman assigned to clean the room that day weeping and blaming herself that she hadn’t said something to the desk when check-out time came and went and the sign was still up.

Constable Brown, DI Lestrade, and DS Donovan were the only ones who’d been inside the room. Brown had been a bit clumsy, checking the body before Lestrade and Donovan arrived (certainly excusable, under normal circumstances), but the other two knew not to begin their investigation until Sherlock had finished scrutinising the scene.

“Something was placed here, on the floor,” he said. “Room service cart?”

“He didn’t call room service.” Lestrade turned to Donovan. “Find out if he called the desk at all. Since he’s been dead two days, it would have to be Thursday, when he checked in, or Friday, the day he died.” She nodded and left the room.

“Our murderer wore latex gloves,” Sherlock said. He had his magnifier trained on the bathroom doorknob. “Probably double-layer.” He turned to the bathroom itself. “I believe he used the hand towel to wipe the room down, so he probably wasn’t wearing gloves the entire time he was in here.” He glanced at the body. “Pity the body wasn’t found sooner. There might have been prints. Now, of course, they’re irretrievable.”

“Why wouldn’t he have worn gloves the entire time?” Lestrade asked.

“Because he was posing as someone — maintenance worker, room service, management — where gloves would not be worn. He had to convince our corpse to let him in, and for that, he had to be completely plausible.” He gave Lestrade a severe look. “Would you let a man wearing latex gloves into your hotel room?”

Lestrade nodded. “I get it. So what was he posing as? All the housekeepers are women. Room service wasn’t called. Maintenance, maybe. Our murderer could have shorted something out, then shown up to fix it.”

Donovan returned. “The dead man checked in as Llewellyn Jones.”

“Probably an alias,” Sherlock said. ”Have your people discovered who he really was, why he was here?”

“They’re on it,” Lestrade replied. “Not much to go on here. One small suitcase and a leather messenger bag. When you’re done here, I’ll have their contents catalogued.” He turned to Donovan. “Anything else?”

“No calls out or in. He did, however, have an appointment, arranged through the spa when he checked in. A massage table was brought in Friday morning.”

“A therapist?” Lestrade said. “Do we have any footage from the hall or the lift?”

“Tech is on it,” she said.

“Have you talked with the spa?” Sherlock asked her. “What time was the appointment?”

“He wasn’t their masseur. Jones wanted somebody who could do acupuncture as well as massage. They called and found someone for him. The appointment was for one-thirty.”

“Get the footage,” Lestrade said. “Do you have a name for the therapist?”

Donovan nodded. “Ian MacLeod.”

 

When the tech team had finished taking photos, the body was taken away. In Lestrade’s office, the three of them watched what the camera had seen.

“There he is, coming out of the spa,” Donovan said.

“How did he get into the hotel?” asked Sherlock. “They have surveillance in the lobby.”

“Wait— slow this down so we can get a good look at him,” Lestrade said.

Donovan selected the best frame and froze it. “Pretty grainy.”

“He’s got his head down,” said Sherlock. “He knows he’s on camera. Height, less than average. I’d say five-six. Not a big man, but obviously in good shape.” He took the remote from Sally. “Here he is from the rear. Slight limp. Interesting.”

“Nice arse,” said Sally. The men looked at her. “Just sayin’. Probably gay.”

“You can tell from grainy footage of a man walking down a corridor that he’s gay?” Lestrade asked.

“Well,” she said. “I have some experience.”

“More important than his sexuality is his limp,” said Sherlock. “A professional assassin could pose as any number of things — gay, straight, young, old — but he would not pose as a man with a limp if he wished to go unnoticed. The limp is real.”

They watched MacLeod cross the lobby and wait for the lift. He stared steadfastly at his feet until the lift opened and he stepped in. Spiky blond hair, nondescript profile. The lobby camera was not close enough to capture any detail.

Sherlock fast-forwarded the tape until they saw him step out of the lift into the lobby, walk down the hall and enter the spa. “This is an hour later, give or take. No footage from the third floor; the camera had been knocked askew a few days earlier and nobody had bothered to fix it. The third floor maid said the massage table was in the hallway, folded and propped against the wall.”

Lestrade rubbed his jaw. “Why would he take the time to put it out there? Why not just leave it in the room?”

“Someone would be sent to collect it,” Sherlock said. “If they didn’t have to open the door, more time would pass before the body was discovered. More time, less evidence. Were the cameras on other floors working?” He rewound and watched the man walking towards the spa again.

Donovan nodded. “There were two cameras on the third floor, one at each end of the hallway. One was askew, the other off line. No footage from either. The tech people think it was sabotaged.”

“Interesting that there was no interference with the lobby cams. Is there any way to enhance this so we can see more detail?” Sherlock asked.

“We’ll have the team look at it,” Lestrade said. “If he was able to sabotage the third floor cameras, why didn’t he do the lobby cams as well?”

“The death was meant to appear natural. An aneurysm, perhaps. He didn’t expect this level of scrutiny. Shutting off the lobby cams would have drawn immediate notice and suspicion. So he was confident that no one would ever look for the footage. And, I might add, we never would have if I had not found the body in the alley suspicious and noticed similarities with this one. What does the spa know about MacLeod?”

Donovan nodded. “He’s an independent, doesn’t work for the hotel. Fake name, most likely, but we’re checking him out.”

Sherlock frowned and returned to the footage. “Okay, he went into the spa and never came out?”

“There’s an exit that leads to the alley,” Donovan replied. “He must have gone out that way.”

Sherlock reversed the tape. “Did he enter by the side or the front?”

“Must have come in the front,” Donovan said. “The side door is locked from the outside.”

“Ah, here he is.” Sherlock played footage of the lobby. A man in a dark blue work jumpsuit, jacket, and cap entered, went down the hallway towards the spa. Again, his face was averted. “Is there a camera in the alley?”

Donovan shook her head. “No such luck.”

“All right,” Sherlock said, beginning to pace. “What do we have? A man, possibly in his thirties, with a limp. Short, muscular, probably gay.”

“I never said—” began Donovan.

“He is,” Sherlock said. “And he is much stronger than he looks if he can lift and position of victim of that size.”

“Anything else?” Donovan asked. “Might be blond.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I guarantee you his hair is a different colour now. He knows he was on camera, and will have changed his look two days ago. Whether he is a licensed therapist or not, he must have some experience in massage or physiotherapy.”

“And acupuncture,” Donovan added.

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock said. “He might have claimed that in order to get the job. Like all good assassins, he researched his mark and knew that a free massage would get him into that room. Ergo, he must have known the man’s physical complaints.”

“A good assassin,” Lestrade said. “I suppose he is. I wonder if he’s had any other jobs in London. We should look at similar deaths.”

“I still think we should look at acupuncturists,” Donovan said. “That would narrow it down a bit. How many can there be in a city of this size?”

“Several hundred,” Sherlock replied. “Waste of time. It’s not as if he killed the man with acupuncture—” He froze.

“What?” said Lestrade. “You’ve got that look, the one where you suddenly swan off without telling me what you just realised or where you’re swanning off to.”

Sherlock remained entranced for several more seconds. The he pushed back his chair and stood. “I need to see the body again. And I will require a high-powered magnifier.”

 

Molly Hooper stood in front of the drawer where Mr Jones lay in his body bag. “I just got an order,” she said. “No autopsy.”

“I don’t need autopsy results,” said Sherlock. “I just need to look at the body.”

“I’m supposed to turn him over for cremation,” she said. “They’re on their way now.”

Sherlock huffed. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“Come on, Molly,” Lestrade said. “Let him have a look.”

She folded her arms in a futile attempt to look resolute. “I can’t.”

“Maybe you could get some coffee,” Sherlock suggested. He smiled. “Please?”

They watched her resolve crumble. “Fine. I’m going to leave the room for a few minutes. Whatever you do while I’m gone is on you.” She turned and left.

Sherlock snapped on a pair of gloves, pulled the drawer open and undid the bag’s zipper. “Help me turn him over,” he said to Lestrade. They rolled the body onto its belly.

“What are you looking for?” the DI asked.

“A needle-sized hole at the base of his skull, where the foramen magnum is located. I need something with better magnification.”

Molly returned with coffee. She reached into one of her desk drawers, brought out a magnifier. “I’ve got a high-powered lens. Not sure you’ll see much, though, with the degree of decomposition.”

Sherlock was silent, carefully feeling for the foramen. “The angle would have to be just right if he aimed to hit the brain stem.” He turned the magnifier on and began his examination of the skin.

“You think he shoved a needle into his brain?” Lestrade asked.

“That’s exactly what I think. The brain stem controls autonomic functions — respiration, swallowing, involuntary muscles like the heart. If placed in exactly the right spot — There!” He looked triumphant. “The insertion of a needle right here, where we can see this tiny prick, at the correct angle, would stop his heart and breathing instantly.”

Lestrade leaned over, looking where Sherlock’s finger was poised. “I don’t see anything.”

“We’ll get a high def picture and blow it up. Rather a peaceful way to go, I suppose.” He grinned at Lestrade. “And now we know something else about our assassin.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s had medical training. Possibly a surgeon. Only a pair of highly trained hands could have done this.”

Donovan entered. “Ian MacLeod is nobody. First job for the spa, had fake credentials that looked good.”

“Did anyone interview him?” Sherlock asked. If someone had talked to him face-to-face and remembered anything — voice, accent, mannerisms…

“Phone conversation with the spa manager,” she said. “No ID badge. Now, of course, she wonders why they didn’t insist on an interview and a photo.”

“Social engineering,” Sherlock said.

Donovan frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Human hacking. He manipulated her into hiring him without her even realising she was being played. An expert in deception.”

“At any rate,” Donovan went on, “we’ve learned more about our victim. He was a known human trafficker, in town to pick up some merchandise, including children.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. _The other victim…_ “The alley. Was there a massage parlour nearby?”

 

For once, Sherlock agreed to ride in the police car.

“We don’t know how the other bloke was killed,” Lestrade was saying.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Obviously, it was the same assassin. I thought we’d agreed on that.” He glared out the window. “And why was the body cremated? It’s an active investigation, isn’t it?”

“Not for us, it isn’t.”

“But still. The fact that it was cremated means that someone has decided it _won’t_ be investigated.”

“Look, here’s the alley,” Lestrade said. They climbed out of the car. “Where’s your massage parlour?”

“It’ll have to be within a couple hundred meters or so. He couldn’t carry the body much further, even under cover of night.”

They walked the streets around the alley. Sure enough, they found a small establishment: _Massage, Facial, Hair Removal_ , the sign said. They went inside.

An older woman greeted them. _Chinese,_ thought Sherlock.

“Good afternoon,” he addressed her in Mandarin. “This is not a raid. We are looking for a man who might have worked here.”

She frowned at Lestrade, who was flashing his badge. “We are legal shop,” she said in English. “No funny stuff.”

“No raid,” he assured her. “The man we’re looking for is wanted as a witness in another matter entirely. It has nothing to do with your spa.”

She nodded. “Anglo?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Blond hair, about five-six, ten stone. He’s a masseur and does acupuncture as well.” He showed her the grainy printout of Ian MacLeod.

“Yes,” she said. “Here sometime. Not on payroll. Cash client. Last time, a month ago.”

“What’s his name?”

She shrugged. “No name, no paper. We call him Doc.”

 

“I told you he was a doctor,” Sherlock said as they walked back to the car.

“Just because they call him Doc—”

“He is. What he does requires detailed knowledge of the human nervous system. His other credentials might be fake or real, but he is a doctor.”

“Okay,” Lestrade said. “That isn’t very useful info, though. He could have gone to school anywhere.”

Sherlock had to admit this was true. He had a gut feeling that the man was local, but nothing concrete. “Let me know what you can find out.”

“What’s the point? The investigation’s been shut down.”

“This involves human trafficking,” Sherlock replied. “And I’m sure _that_ hasn’t been shut down. I’d like to look at some cold cases. Similar deaths, anything involving trafficking.”

Lestrade shrugged. “We’ve got plenty of those.”


	5. A Different Kind of Scar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names Glossary:  
> James is another Watson alias, the name his girlfriend calls him by.

What was most curious about the hole in his shoulder was that anyone in a position to notice it already knew it was there. He hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t remarked, _hey, I woke up with a huge, ugly scar on my shoulder._ They already knew.

Something had changed. In most respects, the world was exactly the same. It was just here, in this small difference, that he could see how his life had diverged from the track it was on. Even if there were no other differences, this one change might lead to other changes, like a detour with so many turns that eventually you forget where you were going.

He got off the bus, walked a block to the gym, his bag slung across his chest in a way he was not accustomed to, hanging from his unscarred shoulder. He felt awkward, as if he were trying to operate someone else’s body.

“How’s the shoulder?” his trainer asked when he entered the gym. “Painful?”

“A bit,” he said. “Not sure what I did to set it off.”

Matt shrugged. “Sometimes, the littlest thing can do it. One wrong move starts a chain reaction, and the next thing you know, you wake up feeling like you’ve been beaten up.”

No, it was before he woke up. He’d felt it the night before, but it just hadn’t registered. _Maybe I need a shrink, not a trainer._

He made it through his routine. Matt suggested a few modifications, but left him to it.

So, it was something he could live with. Had lived with, apparently. But it was, at the same time, inexplicable. His limp, meanwhile, had apparently disappeared. At times he found himself subconsciously protecting his leg, but within a day he had grown used to it.

 

“The police are taking an interest,” Janacek said.

Today they met in a private room at his club. He had an office in an unremarkable government building, but since that first meeting, they’d more often met elsewhere, sometimes at a restaurant, occasionally a museum or a park. In public, they conversed in innuendo and gestures, using words that sounded quite ordinary to anyone listening. Watson had been fluent in that language since childhood. He knew how to say things— without actually saying them.

Here, however, they could be more direct with one another. The Diogenes staff was well vetted and trained not to hear what was said in the few rooms where talking was allowed.

“An interest?” Watson frowned. “I made no mistakes. I left nothing for them to take an interest in. It was all perfect, from beginning to end.”

The older man nodded. “I know. They have a consultant, however, with an over-eager imagination. He is not convinced, and he has persuaded NSY to look more closely. The other body, the one in the alley— he drew it to their attention. Now he seems to have noted similarities with the corpse of our latest target.”

The food arrived. Janacek had ordered for them both, as always, veal for himself, and seared tuna for Watson. It was convenient working with someone who could so easily predict his preferences, but at times it was a bit eerie as well. Tonight he had little appetite. With his fork, he poked at his fish, took a bite, then finished his salad.

“No worries,” his companion said. “There will be no autopsy. The body has been cremated.”

Watson nodded. His shoulder twinged and his hand went to it, kneading the damaged tissue.

The other man gave him a concerned look. “Is it giving you pain tonight?”

“My shoulder? Yes.” He would say nothing more about it to Janacek. _Perceived shifts in reality don’t inspire confidence_.

“Take some time off,” Janacek said, pouring them each more wine. “It’s two months until the anniversary. I’ll expect some activity then, but it should be quiet for a few weeks yet.”

Watson paused, fork in mid-air. “Anniversary?”

“July the seventh,” he replied. “It’s four years now, so perhaps the media won’t make so much of it.”

Watson fell silent, ate his fish without consciously thinking about it.

 

When he arrived at his flat, he opened his laptop and searched _7 July 2005._ A terrorist attack, three bombs in the underground, one on a bus. _Piccadilly line, Russell Square_. 52 dead, over 700 injured.

 _Why do I not remember this?_ He read several articles. The attacks were blamed on Islamic extremists. The year following, several attempted attacks were foiled. The second anniversary brought demonstrations; a bomb was discovered on a bus, but was not detonated.

It was inconceivable that he had missed this news. An event so shattering, so widely reported, he could not have forgotten. And again, he went through his checklist. Unless it was a very specific type of amnesia, his memory was not impaired. Stress had never affected him this way, and he wasn’t taking any medications, even for the pain in his shoulder.

He leaned back in his chair, listening to Tchaikovsky. Maybe Janacek was right. He should take some time. Maybe he’d go to Glasgow, visit his sister’s grave.

Maybe he just needed to clear his head. _I’ll contact Mary_ , he thought. _Tomorrow._

He closed his eyes. The sweet notes of the violin soared in his mind, and he returned to that place and time, that hand clutching his own, and everything that was unsaid.

 

He always met Mary at a hotel. This time it was the Manchester, in Marylebone. Her husband had a government post, which meant he was often traveling. All the same, she never invited him to her house, even if her family was out, and he did not invite her to his flat. It was better that this be something separate, that they could be two people whose real lives never intersected. She didn’t know his address (though he knew hers, a benefit of working in government intelligence). She didn’t even know his real name. Her name, he knew, was Morstan.

She texted him the room number and he met her there. Once the door had closed behind him, she came towards him, smiling, and slipped her arms around his chest.

“James,” she said. Her voice was low and thrilling. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her.

He said nothing, leaned in and kissed her.

There were reasons, he knew. Reasons why Mary, a woman fifteen years his senior with three children in school and a husband who provided everything she could want, would meet with a man she knew only as _James_. For reasons that he could not fathom, she never asked him about his work, his family, or why he slept with her.

 _You’re gay_ , she’d told him when they first met. She was sharp, this woman. Might have been a professional of some stripe, but she had elected instead to marry, have children, and do charity work.

“Bi,” he said. “Both men and women.”

Maybe that had intrigued her, the fact that he’d had sex with men. Some women found it fascinating that a man might be something between gay and straight. Kinky, perhaps. He had never asked a woman what she fantasised about.

For him, it was like being ambidextrous. Not a choice, but it gave him more options. Now, though, it was simpler to have a woman, just one. Particularly one who made no demands, who only wanted whatever this was that they had. He hadn’t had sex with a man in several years, but when he needed a quick release and didn’t want to bother with other people, he always thought of a man.

She ran her fingers through his hair, then stroked his upper lip. “I hope you’re not growing a moustache, love. If you want facial hair, it must be a beard. A moustache will make you look old. A beard or nothing.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” he said. “Simply too lazy to shave this morning.” His mouth sought hers.

She unbuttoned his shirt as they kissed. He pulled at her blouse, ran his hands up her skirt.

“Eager, are we?”

“Hm,” he said.

When she had his shirt off, she paused to unbutton her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She wore a garter belt and stockings because he’d told her he liked that. He watched as she removed her jewellery and set it on the bedside table. Then she slipped her blouse off.

“God,” he said.

As she pulled off his vest, she began kissing his scar. He flinched.

“It’s bothering you.”

“No,” he replied. “Sometimes, I just forget.”

She smiled. “Let me do something that will take your mind off of it.” Kneeling, she unzipped his trousers, pulled out his cock and took it in her mouth.

His brain started to go offline. He imagined dark, curly hair, azure eyes…

“Not yet,” she said as he felt his balls draw up. “On the bed, now.”

She was on him and he was inside her. “God, you fill me,” she said. “I’m going to come.”

And then he was spilling inside of her, and she was throbbing around him. For several minutes, they did not speak. She lay her head on his good shoulder and stroked his abs. It was comforting to lie like this, feeling as if he were a satellite slipping out of orbit, falling into the atmosphere.

“Someday, you’ll leave me,” she said.

He traced her eyebrow with a finger. “Everyone leaves.”

 

He might have flown to Glasgow, but found driving more relaxing, so he hired a car. Though he’d thought of buying a vehicle, it hardly seemed worth the hassle that went with ownership — the maintenance, the parking, the fees. If he felt like driving, he could hire a car, a much nicer car than his frugal nature might allow him to own.

He got on the M1 and headed north. As he drove, he thought about the paradox he now occupied. When had everything changed? He’d been shot over a year ago, in 2008. He remembered being captured, wounded, and released. But now, even that had changed. He’d read his own service record. When it happened, he’d been undercover, it said, investigating a Colonel Moran. He remembered the man. In another life, he’d killed him and been wounded in the battle. The details in his file were sketchy, as they needed to be for this type of work. He wasn’t even sure how he came to be shot in the shoulder. He might have just asked Janacek, but it seemed like a bad idea for his partner to know he didn’t remember. Much as the man seemed to value him, he knew he was not irreplaceable. If he showed signs of cracking, he would have to be taken out.

He’d been a doctor once, a man who healed. Becoming a killer hadn't been as hard as he'd imagined on the day of that first interview, when Janacek had suggested that he had the makings of a skilled assassin. Seeing the detritus of human trafficking was what convinced him. No one should be allowed to get away with that. Arresting the slavers did little good.Some men were untouchable, though they continued to touch the lives of children with their filthy hands. It was justice to kill them. What good did it do for civilised people to ban capital punishment, when immoral men took lives every day — either by taking slaves or by letting them die?

He and Janacek never talked ethics, but he knew that it was simply a matter of bookkeeping to the older man. People who ran these slave rings always found ways to evade justice. He was just evening out the universe, tidying the edges, bringing justice to few slaves at a time. Watson, being a patient man, saw the value in this approach. Laws take time to pass and set in motion, and justice is often ponderously slow. He was a man of action, not inclined to think theoretically. Some things were just evil. Some acts required swifter vengeance than the law allowed.

At times, he missed his sister, the only person who might have understood the path his life had taken. It was always painful to stand at her grave and remember what happened to her, but it helped him remember why he needed to do this.

Two hours to go. He slid a CD into the dash slot of the car’s sound system. Prokofiev swelled. _Lieutenant Kije_. Military and Russian.

 

He hadn’t contacted anyone to let them know he was coming. There was really no one, except for a few second cousins and other relatives even more distant on his father’s side. His mother’s family was Danish, still in Denmark, he assumed. Or maybe that was just something his dad had made up. He’d never met them, didn’t remember her. Driving into Glasgow, he headed straight for the cemetery. The plan was to stand at her grave, let the silence sink in, maybe have a chat with her, and then find an out-of-the-way inn where he could stay for a few days. He would take scenic walks, reflect, and figure out this new world where things he didn’t remember had happened.

Prokofiev was over. He switched to Bach. Janacek said he was a romantic, based on his love of Russian composers, but there were times when sentiment was a losing proposition. At those times, he needed the order and precision of JS Bach. As a child, he’d played the standard pieces. Reading music was something he’d never mastered, but he could play by ear anything he heard. That was a skill his father drummed into him. _Play it by ear. Feel the music and just play, sing_. Notes on a page were not music; music was sound and breath and life.

It was never that simple, of course. One could not take liberties with Bach or Mozart the way one could interpret a folk tune or a rock classic. As a singer, he’d learned to paraphrase the music into something of his own. He could never explain where it came from, that ability to deliver a song without mimicking someone else’s interpretation. People clapped, gave money, and his father didn’t care how fucking cute he was. He sang all his pain and fear and sadness and his father could not stop him because that was what people paid for. He was alive, he was free, and music had saved his life.

At the cemetery, he followed a path to the place where his older sister lay. She was thirteen when she died, hardly old enough to have figured life out. Where John had a talent that saved him, Harry had nothing. She loved women because they were not the men her father gave her to. She had no music to voice her rebellion. Sometimes she ran off, but she always came back. Was that because of John? Did she need her younger brother to stand witness to the cruel joke her life had become? She loved women, was handed over to men. John was just a boy, but he could see what was happening. The night she died, he remembered thinking, _I am the only witness now. I must stand for both of us, let the world see the injustice that has been done._

But the world didn’t care. Children were abused every day, and people might wring their hands about it, but nothing changed. He saw himself in the thousand faces of children who had no voice, no justice. It became his lonely war.

_Harry, you should have left me sooner, gone off on your own, found your own salvation. It wasn’t an advantage being a boy, as you had assumed, but I managed. Eventually, I found something, a job I can do better than anyone. I don’t know if it makes a difference, but maybe it evens things up a bit._

He walked the path, remembering her body at the funeral, imagining the plain casket lowered into the ground. He hadn’t cried. He’d learned never, ever to show emotion of that kind. What good would it do those who’d died? He was here for himself, to remember, to remind him why he did what he did.

It did not register that anything was different, not until he came to a halt at the piece of ground where his sister was buried. Where she should have been buried.

When so much of his life was still the same, carrying on without a hitch, should he have expected this bit of turf to have changed? There was his scar — that was still disturbing, but waking up for several mornings in a row and looking at it before he went into the shower had acclimatised him to it somewhat. There were the details of his career that seemed to have slipped their moorings, and were now drifting — still at anchor, but definitely questionable. And there was history, the bombings that he didn’t remember.

And now, this. A different kind of scar.

He stood where his sister’s grave should have been, saw a tombstone with someone else’s name on it.

Dear God. _They’ve reinterred her somewhere. Did I forget to pay some bill? I read the contract, paid for the plot in full…_

The cemetery business seemed a rather solid thing, but now he had doubts. A tombstone, though heavy and solid, might be moved. A body is solid, though prone to decay, but it doesn’t vanish. A grave, a concrete reminder of a life that had been. A place to stand and indulge memory. But now, nothing.

He went to the cemetery office. He would be polite, having experienced some inexplicable changes in these last days. He would reserve judgment and politely inquire what the fuck had happened to his sister.

“We don’t have a record with that name,” the woman at the desk informed him. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry, for what? That his sister wasn’t in her grave? That he’d thought she had a final resting place, but somehow everything had changed?

“Can you check your financial records? I’ve paid the account, so there ought to be a record of that.”

She checked. Her face was sympathetic. “I’m sorry. We don’t have an account under that name.” She mentioned several other nearby cemeteries he might check. “It happens quite often, you know. People forget where they buried their loved one.”

 

He stood outside in the sunshine, looking at the gently rolling hills of the grounds dotted with monuments. He knew this place, had visited it numerous times before. He had not forgotten where his sister was buried.

What did it mean? _Reality is founded in facts_ , he told himself. When the facts change, what has happened to reality? This 2009 used the same calendar as the year he’d been living in a week ago. The streets of London had not acquired new names or decided to go in different directions. People still spoke English, drank tea, watched the telly, ran for the bus, complained about the weather. But there were small differences which seemed to change the fabric that had always clothed reality.

Still 2009. But different. In that old 2009 where he’d lived, there was no scar on his shoulder, no terror attacks had happened four years ago, and his sister was buried in this cemetery. The future is the unknown, but it springs from events that have already happened; everything that subsequently happens is caused by things that are no longer variables. But now the past had changed, the present formed an entirely new equation, and the future was spinning off new variables. He imagined a graph. Somehow, he had moved from the X to the Y axis.

No, it wasn’t even that simple. He tried to remember his maths lessons, the Cartesian plane, the two axes. Maths was not his best subject, but he’d enjoyed the orderliness of it. It pleased him to think that within the chaos of his world, everything could be mapped on that XY plane.

A teacher explained how it worked. He’d said there could be another axis, Z, going through that (0,0) point. Three dimensions. Events, people, places, all at their fixed points within that infinite, mathematical cosmos that stretched out in three-dimensional space. And he remembered raising his hand, asking _were there other axes as well, going through that point?_ (After all, there were plenty of letters in the alphabet.) _Would they be other dimensions?_ The teacher had paused, looking at Watson, a boy who presented no remarkable traits, no unusual intelligence, as if he were a dog who had suddenly asked a question in English instead of barking. _That’s not in today’s lesson,_ he’d replied. _That won’t be on the test._

As a child, his imagination had been a place of refuge. He had trained himself to pay attention to his senses, the physical evidence they provided him. But he had hunches about things sometimes. Janacek said intuition was important, that he was simply his brain processing reality before his conscious mind could catch up.

After that maths lesson, he had imagined how many axes could go through that point. More than XYZ, he thought. An infinite alphabet of multi-dimensional worlds that he could not see.

And here he was, located somewhere along some new, unexpected axis. Axis Q, perhaps. A question mark. Not a world that suspended the laws of nature or physics. Real, rational— but changed.

He tried to remember when it had all changed. He’d first seen the scar when he woke the morning after the hotel job. He’d pulled off his shirt to look in the mirror… Was that the moment? No, he’d been feeling the pain for a while, which was why he looked. The previous night, the shoulder had ached, and he’d assumed he’d pulled a muscle. He hadn’t seen it — he showered by candlelight, sat in the dark, went to bed — but it had been there already. It had happened sooner. In his state of exhaustion, he hadn’t noticed.

He’d moved the body of the victim from the table onto the bed. He’d noticed then, but there was no time to think about it as he set the stage for the discovery of the body. It had hurt, but his focus was on other things. Pain was easy to block under those circumstances.

Before that. When he was massaging the man’s back he’d felt a twinge in his shoulder. But even then it was not new. It had already happened.

Back further. On the train. No, not that soon; he’d been watching the passengers, had been nervous, but controlled. All was as usual. If his shoulder had hurt, he would have noticed. He was running through what he had to do to pull off the job, mentally rehearsing the steps. A pain in his shoulder would have registered at that point because it would affect his ability to do everything well. He would have taken it into consideration, worked his plan around it.

The train had stopped. He was on alert, suddenly aware that his careful plans might go awry. Maybe someone had seen him, knew who he was, knew what he was planning to do. He’d opened the emergency exit. He’d walked along the wall, gone down into the abandoned tunnel. The old homeless woman, Mrs Green. The stairway up, the door at the top. Pain, the shoulder twinge as he pushed it open…

_Don’t let appearances fool you._

That was the Q-moment.


	6. A Train of Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The murder of a child is investigated in this chapter. John's abuse at his father's hands is also remembered. While the description is not terribly graphic, it could be unsettling.

 

In many ways, investigating a murder was like solving a challenging maths problem. The people were simply part of the equation— variables, constants. _Solve for x_. It made Sherlock happy to find the answer.

He wasn’t a cold-hearted person, and was surprised when people thought this of him. Donovan had once called him a freak, hinting that he was a sociopath who got off on murder. He wondered what the difference was, in the end, whether he solved a crime because it fascinated him, or because victims deserved a solution. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Many people benefited when a criminal was caught. But he learned to keep his mouth shut when it came to expressing satisfaction over a hard-won solution. Let people think he did it for the sake of justice, vengeance, or the social good. He did it because it was something he could do well, and it kept him from going back to drugs.

He knew that his skills required him to remove himself from any feelings for the victim of a crime. The best thing he could do for the victim was to solve the puzzle, reveal the murderer, and bring a sense of conclusion to the event. He did not let his emotions engage during the process of sorting it all out.

This small corpse distressed him more than a little, though.

If a person kills an adult, it’s usually because of something that adult has done. Or possibly because of geometry: being at the wrong coordinates, just in time to meet calamity. There is evidence that can be looked for, people to interview, consequences to determine. _Means, motive, opportunity_.

If a child is murdered, it generally has more to do with adults — the parents, the people who had access to the child.

He looked down at the small figure the police had lifted from the skip. A boy, about seven or eight. A few teeth missing, he’d noticed, but gaps where permanent teeth had yet to grow in. A baby on his way to becoming a child. Blond hair, badly cut. Clothing soiled with dirt and urine— and other things. An abused child. An innocent child who had suffered the unspeakable.

Lestrade was looking at Sherlock as if he might say or do something insensitive that would reflect badly on the division. The fact that Sherlock could sense this meant that these were unfounded fears.

He was thinking of another boy with badly cut blond hair, another child victim. _John._

John’s father was a criminal. He had learned this long after the few months they spent in the same classroom. He recalled the faces of the two teachers who talked about the boy when the school finally decided to pass his problems along to some other institution. He remembered what he’d seen on the adults’ faces: horror, disbelief, sorrow. Everything in the boy’s young life had conspired to make him a failure and an outcast, but he had stood up for Sherlock against children who bullied him. He always felt John’s hand in his when Lestrade reminded him that it was about the victims, not the puzzle.

Since their brief, wordless encounter in the school office years earlier, his thoughts often returned to John. He often wondered what happened to him, imagining him living a life parallel to his own — school, university, a career. Maybe he’d had some bumps along the path, as Sherlock had. Maybe he’d been lucky, found someone who loved him. He liked to imagine him successful, maybe a doctor, a writer, or a soldier. He imagined them meeting each other as some point, the introductions, the realisation — _aren’t you…? Don’t I know you?_ He imagined them laughing and touching hands once more, remembering the moment their hands had first met. _Why? Why did you stand up for me, John Watson?_ he would ask. John would smile, and say, _because I knew you, Sherlock Holmes, and I loved you. It was destiny that we met then, and again now…_

When he began to investigate crimes, it occurred to him that John Watson might be found in the Met’s database. As a foster child, victim of some crime that made people drop their voices to a whisper, he would surely have left some sort of data trail.

What he found was horrific. The boy’s father had gone to prison for prostituting his own children and distributing pornography of them. His sister Harriet had survived, run away and eventually made a life for herself. She was living in Glasgow, as far as he knew, working as a cashier at Tesco. Once he thought about meeting her, but decided against it. She would not want to be reminded of how her little brother had died.

John Watson, misfit, a boy without friends or family, a boy who knew his time at any school was limited, that he would once again, over and over, be passed on for other people to whisper over, to insult, to judge.

John Watson, age nine years, eleven months, dead from internal haemorrhage, his body found in a skip near the wooded area of a city park. He had died three months after defending Sherlock, three months after Sherlock had held his hand. His father died serving a life sentence for his death. Not nearly enough restitution.

John Watson, abused child. Years after his death, his image still was bought and sold on the internet, while his body lay in a cemetery on the outskirts of London. Once, Sherlock had gone there and stood at the grave, remembering the feel of that small hand in his. He looked at the meagre monument, paid for by charity, an angel carved right above the words: _John H Watson, 1975-1985_. He left a bouquet of white lilies there, and a note: _I will never forget you._

The child’s body that lay before him was a reminder of his promise. He would do what he could to let this boy rest in peace, prevent his murderers from ever taking another child’s life.

 

His rent was due and his bank account short. Much as he hated to, he might need to call Mycroft. Just thinking about it depressed him. There were already plenty of areas in his life over which Mycroft had some control. Apparently, Sherlock hadn’t yet fully paid his debt to the family for his years of drug abuse. He’d disappointed their parents, inconvenienced his brother. He admitted this and was genuinely sorry, though he mainly regretted it because it seemed to give Mycroft the right to tell him what he could and could not do. At all costs, having his own place was necessary if he was to avoid losing his mind, starting that familiar spiral into drugs. Asking for rent money would allow his brother to lecture him about the impracticality of his plans, the irresponsibility he’d repeatedly demonstrated, and anything else he could hold over him. Sherlock would hold his tongue, bow his head and accept Mycroft’s scolding, promise to do better. This was the drama they regularly played.

After he'd left several voicemail messages without a return call, he realised that he'd have to go to his brother’s club and plead in person, even worse than phone begging, since his brother would deduce from his body language that he had no intention of paying him back or becoming more fiscally responsible. But it really wasn't his fault. It wasn't as if he was spending money on frivolities. He actually lived quite frugally, often foregoing meals. He worked constantly, even if he didn’t get paid for all he did. And he was just starting to gain the trust of Scotland Yard.

He went to the Diogenes Club and awaited his summons, seething that he was forced to wait. This would only worsen his impatience, already in short supply. When Mycroft finally sent for him to be escorted to his room, he forced himself to take deep breaths and reminded himself that he needed the money to keep his small world from crashing.

“Well, brother,” Mycroft said, his lip curling with irritation. “I hope you don’t think that your little problem is the most serious emergency of my day.”

“Obviously, it is not,” he replied. “However, it is somewhat urgent that I pay my rent, and I haven’t yet established quite the client base to pay it in full by the due date. I was hoping you could spot me a few pounds until I am paid for my efforts.”

“Spoken like an adult,” Mycroft said. “If only you could match your actions to your words.”

Sherlock was silent. This was exactly the type of response that made no sense, a statement that was actually a trick question. What could he say? He hated asking Mycroft for anything. He had no plan to continue borrowing money, but how could he prove future actions that hadn’t yet become necessary? His brother had never trusted him, and now he wanted Sherlock to show that he was trustworthy. _How can I prove I am worthy of trust, when you have already decided I never will be?_

“I ask only for a loan,” he finally said. “I will give you collateral, if you wish to guarantee that I will repay it.”

Mycroft’s nose twitched irritably. “Here is what I wish: stop interfering in cases that have been ruled _not a police matter_.”

He frowned. “You’re referring to the hotel murder. Llewellyn Jones.”

“Indeed. Scotland Yard has been told to drop it. You would do well to follow Lestrade’s example and stop poking your nose in where you’re not wanted.”

“He was a trafficker.” Sherlock watched his brother’s face for tells. “That’s your involvement with this.”

Mycroft’s face did not move. That in itself was significant.

Sherlock smiled. “I’m right. If I were not, you would not have hesitated to tell me how ridiculous I am to think so.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Sherlock, listen carefully. Your cleverness will profit you nothing if it gets you killed. Stay out of this matter.”

He nodded. “Very well,” he said. Mycroft had not confirmed his hunch, but he hadn’t denied it either.

“I’m not joking, brother,” Mycroft said. “Do not test my patience on this.”

“I won’t,” he said. “It was interesting, but the trail is cold. You’ve confirmed my suspicions; the solution will obviously be boring.”

Mycroft gave him a dismissive wave and returned to his laptop. “Go now. I’ll take care of your rent. For this month, that is. By next month, I expect you’ll be able to pay it yourself.”

He inclined his head and ducked out of the room.

 

“No,” said Lestrade. “There’s nothing to be gained by pursuing it, Sherlock. The Missing Masseur, or the Comfortable Corpse — whatever you’re calling it, the case is off-limits. I don’t care how insatiably curious you are about Llewellyn Jones. Give it up, mate. I’ll not have your brother going to my superiors and complaining. It’s over.”

Sherlock nodded. “I just thought, if there were other similar cases, we might put those to bed as well, if we know for certain that the victims are all connected.”

“We don’t,” the DI responded. “And they’re not going to confirm it, so forget about it.”

“The boy in the skip, though.” Sherlock tried to sound unconcerned. “We’re still looking at that, aren’t we?”

“No orders to the contrary,” Lestrade said.

“Good, because I have some ideas. Do we know who the victim is yet?”

The DI shook his head. “No ID. Clearly abused. Not likely anyone’s going to come forward. What’s your idea?”

“I need to do some research. I’ll get back to you.” He turned and left.

 

Once he was home, he settled himself in his chair with a cup of tea and opened his laptop. He hacked into the NSY site and signed in as a staff member. _Philip Anderson._ That would do this time. He also had Lestrade’s credentials and password, but didn’t like to get him into trouble. Anderson, however, was always a thorn in his side and too big an idiot to come up with a password more secure than _123456_ or _qwerty_. Under this ID, Sherlock was able to look at any content on the site, even archived information going back more than thirty years.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He was following his intuition, looking for patterns. Bodies found in certain neighbourhoods. Missing children, unidentified children. Unsolved child murders that had been there for months or years, just waiting for someone to see them, make connections.

He retrieved a fairly long list. These were children who’d gone missing over the years and never been found, arranged from most recent to oldest. He assumed that most of them were custody cases and similar situations; one parent might kidnap the children, leave the country and never be found. A few were presumed stranger abductions. Page after page of smiling faces, little children who had probably never grown up.

He scrolled through the children listed as unidentified, feeling a kind of horror rising in his gut at the sight of so many tiny, battered bodies that no one had claimed, for whom only strangers had mourned.

Years earlier, he’d searched for John Watson and found him here, among the child victims of violence. He’d read the report, seen the autopsy photos. For nights afterwards, he’d startle awake, seeing that small, naked body curled up at the bottom of a skip, as if asleep. John had been deprived of any future by horrible adults, people who enslaved children.

His mind turned to Ian MacLeod, the man who’d killed a suspected human trafficker, Llewellyn Jones. Had MacLeod been angry? Had he been abused? Did he crave vengeance? On a whim, he typed the name into the search bar.

No pictures this time, which was odd. There were almost always pictures— autopsy photos or pictures taken as part of a medical exam. But there was a record chronicling the abuse he’d suffered, like John Watson, at the hands of his father. Parts of the record were blacked out, also odd. The father had served nearly twenty years for his crimes, released four years ago. Where was Hamish MacLeod now? No more additions to his criminal record, so perhaps he had stayed out of trouble. Maybe he’d stayed out of his son’s life as well.

More important: where was Ian MacLeod?

 

Linda from the Paedophile Unit frowned at him. “He’s an old one. Would be in his thirties now, if he’s still alive.”

“What happened to him?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say. A kid like that would go into foster care, maybe have a name change. He’d be hard to trace without knowing what they changed it to. Why do you ask?”

Sherlock debated how honest he should be. He’d known Linda for a long time, had worked with her in a _pro bono_ capacity after his first hacking offence, helping the division improve its handling of internet crime. “We had one yesterday. Small boy, about six. I assumed he was a victim of trafficking and possibly online pornography. I’m looking for patterns, other victims.”

“And you found your way to Ian MacLeod.” She removed her half-glasses and sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Sherlock, you need to be careful. I know you’re not a predator, but it looks suspicious, you flipping through old file photos of exploited children.”

“I’m not — that,” he said. God knows, he had vices — the drugs, the hacking — but he wasn’t attracted to children. “It’s for another case. Someone with the same name turned up. I just wondered if they were the same person.” 

She smiled grimly. “Ian MacLeodwas, at one time, one of the most sought-out children on the internet. His photo is still out there, on child porn sites. That’s the thing about porn. Just like anything else on the internet, it’s never really gone.”

“Why do you think he might be dead?”

“Because so many of them are,” she said. “He was active until he was about ten, then suddenly no more pictures. Hopefully, that means he got out. An abused child who doesn’t enter the legal system and become a foster child doesn’t have much chance at a normal life. If he was lucky, he might have been adopted. Are you looking for him?”

“It was just a train of thought. When I saw the name, I wondered.”

Linda studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out about MacLeod. We might check with the Department of Education and see if they can find him in their records. Or maybe the fostering system. Too late for the little one you found today, but maybe Ian is a survivor. It’s always uplifting to hear survival stories.”

Sherlock turned at the door. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t say anything about this to Lestrade or his team. This is something of a tangent, more of a personal quest.”

She smiled. “I understand, Sherlock. Really, I do. I’ll call you when I’ve got some information.”

 

He want straight to Lestrade’s office. “The boy was trafficked,” he said.

Lestrade took a sip of coffee. “What makes you think so?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his curls. Lestrade didn’t like it when he withheld information, but he wasn’t ready to share what he’d learned about Ian MacLeod. “Have you identified him yet?”

“We had a police artist create a sketch and published it in all the papers yesterday, asking for information. No word yet. He’s probably an illegal.”

“His possible status as an illegal does not exclude trafficking, which it almost certainly was.”

Lestrade set his mug down. “When has _almost certainly_ ever been enough for you?”

Sherlock huffed and dropped into the seat opposite the DI. Thankfully, they were alone. “Am I not allowed to have gut feelings about things? Have I not investigated enough crimes to have _instincts_?”

“Sure. But normally you’re the one telling everyone else that their instincts are wrong.”

“Usually, they are.”

“Well, I won’t deny there’s been an uptick in trafficking, especially children. That raid last week — all those women and children. Eastern Europe is where they’re coming from. Blond hair, blue eyes fetch a higher price. But unless it’s murder—”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. Not your division. Have you learned anything more about Llewellyn Jones, our hotel corpse?”

“No, and I’ve been told not to think about that, so I won’t.”

“Do you believe he was connected to the slave trade?” he persisted.

Lestrade scoffed. “And conveniently got himself murdered by an acupuncturist? Are we looking at rival traffickers, making hits on one another?”

Sherlock knew Lestrade was joking, but it was an idea he’d had himself. _Let them kill each other off. Much more efficient_.

“It’s not our case,” Lestrade reminded him needlessly.

Sherlock smiled. “You have to admit, though, that it was brilliant, the way he was killed. I wonder how many people could have done it. Finding the spot to insert the needle, getting just the right angle — not to mention the persuasive skills required to convince the man to lie down and have needles stuck in his neck.”

Lestrade got up and poured himself another cup from the coffee maker. _A high-end drip machine, present from his wife_ , Sherlock thought. The kind of Christmas present a wife buys for her husband when she’s ready to leave him. Expensive, but impersonal.

“I think you’re obsessed with this acupuncturist,” the DI said, apparently unaware that his wife had lost her affection for him. “You admire him.”

“You’re a psycho,” said Donovan, leaning in the doorway. “Of course you admire a fellow psycho.”

“Hardly,” said Sherlock. “I see no evidence that he is a psychopath. He was a man who carefully carried out an assignment. He went to considerable trouble to set it up and do it properly. His victim did not suffer at all. And you might not even have noticed that it was a murder if I hadn’t brought the other one to your attention.”

Donovan put a file on Lestrade’s desk. “No ID on the boy. However, since the papers showed the sketch of the boy, we’ve received a tip. Someone saw him on the underground. Piccadilly line, near Russell Square, somewhere around one pm, a few days before he was found dead. He was with an older woman.”

Sherlock frowned. “Who was the tip from?”

“Anonymous.”

Lestrade rubbed his jaw. “There are cameras on most of the trains.”

Donovan nodded. “I’m on it. We’re getting footage from trains on that line between noon and one pm.” She turned and left.

The DI’s phone rang. As Sherlock stood to leave, Lestrade held up a finger, frowning as he listened. “I understand,” he said, and rang off.

 _I understand_ is code for _I don’t agree but will reluctantly do what you want,_ Sherlock knew. Another directive from above, he assumed. “What is it?”

Lestrade sighed. “We’re off the case.”

“What? Why?”

“Who knows?” Lestrade said testily.

Sherlock turned and ran after Donovan. He had to see the footage. _Someone else was on that train, someone who shouldn’t have been there._


	7. Failure to Sync

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name Glossary  
> Watson goes undercover as Peter Jensen, a Danish doctor and businessman.

The night Harry died was a night he could never forget.

Their father was prostituting her, giving her to men who liked young girls.When she turned thirteen, she ran away for the first time. Da found her, dragged her home, continued to pimp her out. He couldn’t afford to let her go; she was paying the rent, their food, his drugs. Paying for everything. Late one night, John had crept to his sister, told her to run away, not to worry about him. As a boy, he thought, he might endure less abuse. He had musical talent, and brought in a few coins that way. He wasn’t afraid, he told her. His opportunity would come, and then he would get away. Meanwhile, Harry should take the money he’d managed to save and get a ticket to Glasgow, stay with relatives there. 

Da caught her as she slipped out that night. After he beat her, she was unconscious, breathing oddly, and Watson, only ten, knew she was dying. He’d gone to her, told her he would bring help, but it was too late. Her face was nearly unrecognisable, swollen and bloody. As he was talking to her unconscious body, she drew her last breath. Her body was buried in Glasgow, her funeral paid for by relatives.

No. That wasn’t what had happened. In this shifted reality, the Q-Axis, she might be alive.

The grave he had visited, where he had talked to her, no longer existed. She must have run away. She hadn't been caught. Why did he still remember her dying?

Memory was the most confusing thing about this reality. He could not remember things that had happened here, but he clearly remembered things that hadn’t happened. He wondered if reality was always shifting, but the brain never noticed because memory kept up, synced to the new reality without a hitch. If so, something had happened that had not only put him here, but had failed to sync his memories. This meant that everything must be suspect. He could not trust anything or anyone that he _knew_. As the only person (apparently) who saw that a shift had happened, he would be taken for a madman.

But who could live like that, doubting everything? It was exhausting. He had to be careful, think things through before making any more assumptions.

 

Two days before the Anniversary, he was sent to Bucharest to find a man who was procuring slaves for the syndicate. No murders this time, just information. He didn’t expect this fellow to tell him much, but every bit of information he could glean was valuable. Someone was behind it all, some shadowy figure who oversaw the entire process — the kidnappings, the transport, the marketing, the sales.

Usually Janacek handled jobs like this; his strength was persuading people to tell him things. Watson’s talents tended more towards theft, extrication, and assassination. But it was always good to stretch unused muscles. Janacek was in Moscow for the week, looking into another matter.

He stayed in a modest hotel, calling himself Peter Jensen, a Danish businessman. His Russian was good, but it always helped to admit he wasn’t Russian, just in case his accent was a bit off. Danish was a much easier accent for an English-speaker, he found. And perhaps it was written in his DNA as well, inherited from the mother who had disappeared shortly after he was born.

Mary had been right about the moustache, he decided. It did make him look older. His hair was darker now, and longer, combed to the side. His passport said he was forty-three, born in Copenhagen. To reinforce the impression of an older man, he carried a cane. These days, he no longer needed it.

He knew enough Romanian to be polite. The language always sounded to him like the bastard child of Italian and Polish. Being a bastard himself, he had some affection for Romanian. Dacian, the Romans had called it. Now an extinct branch of the Indo-European family tree, the Dacians having sold their cultural heritage to the Romans.

His contact was Serbian. They spoke Russian, laughed at one another’s mispronunciations. With contacts, Watson always adapted like a chameleon, changing his voice, his expression, his gestures within seconds of sussing the other out. As a child, he’d managed to fit into some oddly diverse situations, as different as the schools he’d attended, the clubs where his father had performed, and the council flats where they’d lived. The waves of their fortunes went up and down, and his father never seemed to have the knack of keeping an even rudder. If he had money, he spent it. If he was broke, he resorted to any means possible to get what he needed. Survival meant riding the waves.

He focused on the man in front of him. In his forties, he estimated. Short, dark, with the habits of a man who is always looking over his shoulder. Not very high in the organisation. Probably attempting the same thing Watson was here to find out: how much does this fellow know? Is he who he says he is? Fortunately, he did not seem very smart.

“You are a doctor?” the Serb asked.

He nodded. “Surgeon,” he said. “Mostly joint replacements.”

“There’s money in that,” the Serb replied. “Fat old people.” He laughed.

Watson smiled. “Which is why I’m looking into various investments. What can you tell me about your enterprise?” He took off his glasses and polished them with a small microfibre cloth.

The Serb was careful, as he should be, talking without specifics or names. They might have been discussing perfectly legal _enterprises_.

“Who is this friend of yours? The one who told you about us?”

“He asked that I not use his name. I can verify his identity if I am satisfied that the enterprise is sound.” He repositioned his glasses. “I’m prepared to put up an initial investment of several thousand pounds. What can you tell me about your CEO?”

The Serb smirked. “They call him the Irishman.”

No name, then. Perhaps it didn’t matter. The higher up you were, the less likely it would be for a man like this Serb to know your name.

“What’s his background?”

“He’s been involved in a number of businesses,” the Serb said. “He has many gifts.”

“Who can I talk to?” Watson asked. “I’d like some reassurance that this is a sound investment, and clearly you cannot provide that. I’m not asking to become involved in management. I just want some indication that this is a well-run enterprise.”

“All investments are risky,” the Serb replied. “The more risk, the more profit.”

He wouldn’t be able to talk to the Irishman. Apparently, he had not completely passed muster. The Serb introduced him to another man, English, who ran the logistics of getting the merchandise out of Romania and into Britain.

“London?” he asked. He suspected the import would take place in Edinburgh, but did not want to appear overly informed.

“Once you’ve invested in us, perhaps more details will be forthcoming,” the Englishman said. He smiled politely. “We take security very seriously.”

He nodded. “Reassuring. I will go ahead with an initial investment — and will make further investments if that works out, with the condition that I be allowed to meet your CEO.”

They took his money. Handshakes were exchanged, but no signatures. That’s the way these things were done. Honour among thieves.

 

He flew home two days later, using his time on the plane to sleep. His shoulder wound ached more than his leg ever had. Maybe he’d see Mary this week, he thought, even though it wasn’t their usual week. He might keep the moustache to show her.

No, probably a bad idea, that. He was getting a bit too close to her, and however he thought about it, that could not end well, for either of them. A year was a long time to be involved with someone, but the dry spell before meeting her had been long as well. As perfect as the arrangement had been up to now, it was not safe to get attached. He would have to break off with her.

This would leave a gap in his life, he realised. Though initially he’d been interested only in the sex, he’d grown to like her. It had worked out well: both of them needing an outlet, neither of them willing to change their circumstances. Mary’s husband was an important man in the government. She’d never said more than his name, David, and had occasionally mentioned two sons and a daughter, but didn’t bother him with any detail, which was what he preferred. He’d never asked her why she didn’t divorce him; on some level, she might still love him, he decided. Or maybe she was content in the life she had. But she needed this, too, a man on the side who asked nothing of her.

He’d told her nothing about himself. Maybe she thought he was married and had children. Maybe she thought he had a boring job selling insurance or managing people’s investments. The only thing she’d deduced was that he was more gay than straight. She didn’t ask questions. That was fine with him.

Though he might have simply stopped contacting her, left her to conclude that he was no longer interested, he felt he owed her an explanation. Because she’d been fair with him, respected his limits, he needed to end it in a way that was not ambiguous. It might be a hard conversation. He wasn’t a coward, but he was a man of very few words. Most of those words would be lies, he realised.

 

He took a cab from the airport to Janacek’s house in Pall Mall.

“They didn’t blow anything up this year,” Janacek said, leading him into a small garden in back of the house. “The anniversary,” he said in response to Watson’s puzzled look. “Just a few demonstrations.”

“Sorry. A bit jet-lagged,” he said. _Would he ever get used to what had changed? What if the past continued shifting under his feet like sand, events appearing and disappearing?_ He stroked his moustache, allowing himself this small, comforting gesture. “Demonstrations, you said?”

The older man nodded. “The usual. The extremists and their gullible minions.”

Over tea, he began to brief Janacek on his negotiations. “I’m afraid it will take more money to meet this Irishman. I’m sorry. Obviously, I was not convincing enough.”

“Patience,” Janacek said. “This hydra has many heads, I fear, but the brain running all of them is Moriarty, as you say.”

_Moriarty. Sounds familiar… Something else missed?_ “The Irishman?”

“Indeed,” said Janacek. “I’m thinking that once we understand how the enterprise runs, we might infiltrate, find out who's running things. Rather than as an investor, I might pose as a customer. Perhaps we can get you in as a driver. I’ve been talking to some people, peripherals he uses for transport.”

“How are they marketing these children?”

“Privately, in empty houses. They lease them out for the purpose of parties where the _goods_ can be examined.”

He shuddered. Memories of his father showing him off to men, taking his picture, telling him how to stand…

“The victims are kept at various other locations, the party locations frequently changed. This requires minders, guards, drivers, custodial staff, real estate people. Only a few insiders know the entire operation, and he keeps them close. Llewellyn Jones was such a person. His job was matching goods and customers.”

“I can pass myself off as a guard or a driver, perhaps,” Watson said. “But this is going to take time.”

“It’s a long game,” Janacek said. “That you’ve come this far is better than I expected. It will take time for us to recognise the other faces of this organisation and figure out how to con them. We must be patient, Alex. This involves many people in many countries. Eastern Europe, certainly, but we have intelligence that there are operatives in South America as well.”

Watson nodded and gave a small smile. “He received a phone call during our conversation. He spoke in Portuguese — Brazilian Portuguese. They must have—”

Noise from inside the house — voices raised, doors slammed. Watson felt his blood pressure spike; immediately he began considering options.

“I’m sorry,” Janacek said calmly. “Let me see what this is about.”

As he rose from his chair, the door swung open and a tall man with dark, curly hair stepped out onto the patio, followed closely by the butler, who was sputtering with indignation. “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes—”

The intruder glared at Janacek and ignored the butler. “Mycroft! We need to talk!”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” said the butler. “He pushed right past me.”

Janacek’s face showed brief irritation, then quickly became composed. “No worries, Geoffrey.” He turned to the dark-haired man. “Sherlock,” he said firmly. “Please step into my study and wait until I’m done talking with my guest.”

At the name, Watson felt the blood leave his face. The man he'd called Sherlock turned and looked at him with a keenness Watson had rarely felt. He hoped that his face was not revealing the consternation roiling in his gut. _Sherlock Holmes. There could not be two with that name._

Their eyes met. Sherlock looked surprised, then curious. “My apologies,” he said, not taking his eyes off Watson, “I did not expect my brother to have a guest. He so rarely does.”

Janacek frowned at his younger brother, but spoke lightly. “Doctor Jensen, allow me to introduce my younger brother, Sherlock. Brother, this is Peter Jensen, a friend.”

The man held out his hand; Watson became Peter Jensen once more. He rose and took the hand, inclining his head and smiling. “Hello. Very nice to meet you.”

The man named Sherlock smiled back at him. “Hvordan går det?” _How are you?_

“Taler du dansk?” Watson replied, surprised. _You speak Danish?_

“Undskyld. Jeg taler ikke godt dansk.” _Forgive me. I don’t speak it very well._ Smiling, Sherlock turned to his brother. “So, Mycroft, you have a friend now. Quite an accomplishment for you.”

Janacek gave his brother a seething look. “Please excuse my brother, Doctor. He is not known for his manners.”

Watson smiled. “Perhaps I should take my leave. Family must come first, of course.”

“Copenhagen or Aarhus?” Sherlock asked. “Obviously you’re Danish.”

“Indeed. I was born in Aalborg,” said Watson.

“Of course.” Sherlock gave him a keen look. “Though I detect in your accent a trace of—”

Watson smiled easily. “You are no doubt hearing the summers I spent in the Faeroes as a child.”

“Come, Sherlock,” said Janacek, taking his arm and propelling him back into the house. “Wait in my study. I will be with you shortly.”

“Det var hyggeligt at møde dig, Doctor,” Sherlock said. _Nice to meet you._ He gave a parting smile as he retreated into the house.

Janacek gave a thin smile. “I’m sorry. Every family has one, I suppose.”

Feeling a bit dazed, Watson tried to appear gracious. “No apology necessary. We can meet again, when and where you say.”

“You will hear from me soon.”

They walked through the house and stood at the front door, talking of the new exhibit at the Tate. Watson saw a door crack open and pale eyes watching them. Giving a slight bow, he left, still feeling those eyes on him.

 

He left the house in Pall Mall and walked, not towards the train station, but into the park, needing to think this through. It was late afternoon and the park was mostly empty, just a few dog walkers. He walked, scarcely aware of his surroundings.

_Sherlock_. It had been over twenty years since he’d seen him. A day had not gone by without a thought of him passing through his mind.

And he’d known that Janacek’s real name was Holmes, but that being a somewhat common name, he’d never made the connection. Tall, like his brother, but otherwise Sherlock did not resemble him much.

He was certain that Sherlock hadn’t recognised him. Remembering their hands together all those years ago, he thought of what he’d felt when he’d taken the outstretched hand thirty minutes earlier, their eyes meeting. He imagined a bolt of electricity going from his hand into Sherlock’s, shocking him into recollection.

No. It was better that Sherlock not realise.

He’d spent years thinking about that moment, wondering if he’d ever see him again. The memory of thatmoment had gotten him through some bad times, given him hope that one day, it would all make sense. Someday, he would meet Sherlock Holmes and they would speak, and it would all mean something.

But he had to acknowledge the possibility that Sherlock would not remember him. As important as the moment had been to Watson, Sherlock might have forgotten him. Seeing him, shaking hands with him, Watson had to admit that he might be assigning more meaning to these things than Sherlock ever would.

Today, Sherlock had clearly not recognised him. Why would he remember a boy he’d known for a few short weeks, a boy he’d had just one conversation with, and that about a maths lesson?

 

He was absorbed in these thoughts as he returned to his flat, but did not forget to pay attention to his surroundings. As he approached his block, he saw a figure leaning against the side of the building. Female, he decided. Small in stature, she was wearing a long, beige knit cardigan that went to her knees. Dirty blouse, short skirt, no hose, skinny, scabby legs. Dyed blond hair, too much makeup that had melted into dark smears under her eyes. A drug addict, probably prostituting herself for quick cash.

He did not despise people like this. He’d grown up among them, and more than once had been treated kindly by them. He knew what their lives were like, the endless hand-to-mouth existence they could never escape. He’d heard their stories and knew that many of them were like him, victims of drug-addled parents and a system whose safety net had holes. There wasn’t anything he could do to change their circumstances, but he would never be anything less than kind to them.

He reached into his pocket, thinking he could spare a few pounds. Whatever he gave her would be spent on heroin or pills, and she would continue to circle the drain like a clot of hair that won’t go down. Still, she might survive long enough to get some real help.

“Evening,” he said.

She stepped into the light. “Johnny.”

Had she not said his name, he might not have recognised her. The puffy face, red-blotched and shiny with sweat, was not the face he remembered, all those years ago, but he remembered the smile.

She sniffed and licked her lips. “I know you said you don’t want to see me,” she began.

He shook his head. “Harry.”

“I tried, Johnny. I really did.” She scratched at her neck. Her hand shook. “I had a job and a little flat.”

“I know,” he said, even though he hadn’t. She was dead, and now she was standing here, under the street light. “Come inside.”

She sat at his kitchen table drinking a mug of tea, plenty of sugar. A glass of scotch was what he needed, but he wouldn’t do that in front of her, not when he could remember her drinking from bottles when she was eleven, waiting for Da to pass out so she could take a few sips.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No. Don’t be. You were right. It’s something I need to do myself. You’ve made it out, and I ought to be able to do it as well.” She sipped her tea. “Jesus, John. You’re a fucking doctor. So proud of you. I tell people that all the time. Nobody believes me, though.” She laughed.

“How can I help you?” he asked. “I don’t mean just throw a few pounds at you. You’ve gotten clean before, so you know it’s possible. What was it this time?”

“Had a girlfriend. Clara was her name. A good girl, not like me. Not posh, but grew up on the right side of the tracks. And I kept thinking, how did I deserve a person like this? What does she see in me? And I guess I just… she said I was pushing her away. I knew she would eventually leave and I wanted to get it over with. So she left. I’m not blaming her. Who would want to be with someone like me? She wised up. And I— well, you know about me.”

“Will you go to rehab?”

She shrugged. “What for? I’ve done that before, and here I am. Don’t lecture me, Johnny.”

He lay his hand on hers, remembering how he’d held her hand the night she died. Right now, she was dying before his eyes, this time in slow-motion. All the times he’d stood at her grave, imagining her grown up… and here she was. He had a chance to do something for her. “Do you want to live, Harry?”

She nodded, her eyes damp. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “God knows why. My life hasn’t been worth anything.”

“It has. We escaped, Harry. I wouldn’t have survived without you. You saved me over and over when we were kids. Now I want to save you, if you’ll let me.”

She chewed her lip and nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“I’m living with a man, a friend. He’s in jail. No— not that. He doesn’t expect me to bail him out. Do the crime, do the time. But he suggested that I go back to Glasgow. He’s got family there, too, and said his cousin would give me a job. I just need enough to buy a ticket. His cousin will meet me at the station and let me stay with her.” She pushed a strand of greasy hair off her forehead. “I didn’t want to ask you, but—”

“Of course. Do you want to stay here tonight? I’ll go with you to buy a ticket tomorrow.”

She stared at him. A tear ran down her cheek. “I’ll pay you back. Not sure how soon, but I will.”

He nodded. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“No, I’ve got my stuff at Quan’s. The rent is paid until the end of the week. I’ll meet you in the morning.” She stood, wiping her eyes. “Have you seen him?”

“Seen who?”

“Hamish.” She gave him a tight smile. “I saw him a couple weeks ago. He asked about you.”

_Well, then._ Another bit of the past had changed. Da hadn’t died in prison because he hadn’t killed Harry. “What’s he doing now?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Delivery man, I guess. Said he was driving a truck or something. He knew you were back from Afghanistan.”

“Does he know where I live?” Obviously Harry had known. “Did you tell him?”

“He didn’t know, and I didn’t say. Told him we hadn’t spoken.”

“Has he… changed? At all?”

“People do change, Johnny.” She smiled. “Still, I think he’s who he ever was. Still hustling, badly, always thinking he’s one deal away from being rich.”

“I don’t want to see him.” _Enough of my past has resurrected itself for one day. There are some things I don’t ever want to see again._

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That night I ran away, I thought you’d be all right, Johnny.”

“I am all right. I survived, no thanks to that son of a bitch. And I never want to see him again.”

She nodded. “I know. I’ll meet you in the morning. Euston Station.”

After he saw her out, he opened the scotch and poured himself a glass.

The Q-Axis was shaping up to be a strange place. He fell asleep on the couch, remembering Sherlock, the man, holding his hand.

In his dream, he stood on the street. _Why am I here?_ He looked around for clues. _Snipers,_ he thought suddenly. Looking up, he saw a man on the roof of a building, gazing down at him. He wore a long coat. Watson could see his dark curls moving in the breeze.

_Do you want to live?_

Someone had asked the question. It might have been him. Before he could figure out an answer, the man stepped over the edge and plummeted towards the ground.

Heart pounding, he jerked awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name Glossary:  
> Janacek = Mycroft Holmes. (I hope a couple of you were surprised!)


	8. No Imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new name surfaces.

Sherlock watched the man — Dr Peter Jensen, so-called — as he stood at the door talking with his brother. Yes, it was certainly the man from the hotel footage — short, nondescript. The fact that he had darker hair and a moustache only confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion. Dr Jensen was a man of disguises. He’d watched him, looking for the limp to confirm his deduction. No limp. _Curious._ Could he have faked it? If he had, he was exceptional, even brilliant. Posing as a man with a limp would require extreme focus and self-awareness.

The accent — again, the man knew his job and was good at what he did. Sherlock didn’t speak much Danish, but the accent sounded nearly flawless. Just a hint of something — Gaelic, he thought. Very good control. His voice, his face, his gestures were all flawless.

After Lestrade told him they were off the case of the Boy in the Skip (not to be insensitive, but he needed to call it something, and it was what it was), Sherlock had run after Donovan, convinced her to pull up the footage, and downloaded it onto his flash drive. He’d taken it home and studied it for two hours, noting every detail. That was how he finally noticed the nondescript man sitting across from the boy and the woman. A man wearing navy blue work clothes and a cap. His face was grainy, but at one point, for just seconds, he had looked directly at the camera. It was a face easily forgotten, but Sherlock had already memorised it.

The cases were linked. He couldn’t see the connection yet, but the man was in both scenarios. Peter Jensen was Ian MacLeod, the hotel assassin.

 

Mycroft had scarcely closed the door when Sherlock began.

“He works for you,” he said.

Mycroft said nothing, poured himself a glass of sherry. “What brings you here?” he asked at last.

“He’s your assassin,” Sherlock said. “The one in the hotel. Is he actually a doctor, or—”

“I asked you not to pursue that case, brother. You are treading dangerously close to a mine field. I cannot answer any questions.”

Sherlock huffed and sank into a chair. “He was on the train, Mycroft! I saw the footage — the boy and the woman. Your Doctor Jensen was there — pretending to be train maintenance or something — at a time when he must have been on his way to kill Llewellyn Jones.”

“Drop this,” Mycroft said, leaning against the desk. “You will endanger a number of people if you pursue it. I hope you will see common sense and leave this alone.”

He laughed. “Surely you understand how wan that hope is. Now that I’ve given up drugs, it’s difficult to stop thinking. I’m like a dog with a bone, not willing to let go unless you give me something better. Just tell me what you’re up to and I’ll go back in my kennel and stop barking at you. At least confirm that these two cases are linked somehow, since you’ve taken us off both of them. I wonder — was it Jensen who sent the link to the footage? The Met is still trying to figure it out, of course, but perhaps—”

Mycroft’s annoyance was obvious, as Sherlock had expected. “No one working with me would do any such thing, Sherlock. We do not send _clues_ to the Met.”

 _Working_ with _me,_ he said, not _working_ for _me._ So, Jensen was a colleague, not a subordinate. A junior colleague, perhaps, but someone Mycroft considered an equal.

He smirked. “Well, somebody sent a _clue_. Someone saw your _colleague_ on the train. How well do you know your boy?”

“We’ve worked together for years. I trust him completely.”

 _Progress_ , thought Sherlock. _At least he’s talking._ “Did you train him yourself?”

“In part.”

“He’s very good,” Sherlock acknowledged. “When I saw how he’d killed the hotel victim, I knew he had to be a doctor. So, what’s his connection with the Boy in the Skip?”

“No connection. I believe your over-active imagination is leading you to see assassins wherever you look.”

“Are you saying it was a coincidence that your pet assassin was on the same train with a trafficked child who died a couple days later?”

Mycroft grimaced. “I am saying that unless you want to get people killed, including yourself, you need to back off. Believe me, if Dr Jensen feels you are a threat, he will not hesitate to kill you. This is part of his directive: let nothing interfere with the mission. Kill to maintain cover.”

Sherlock was silent for a few beats. “I see,” he said at last. “You would let your agent kill your own brother?”

“I would do my utmost to convince him not to kill you, if I could, but he is authorised to identify threats to the mission and eliminate them. He does not need my approval, and he is not one to debate with himself. He is a dangerous man. Stay away from him. If you continue to push this, I might be able to have you shipped out on a mission of your own, probably to Serbia. For your own good. Not a happy prospect, brother mine.”

He nodded, resolving to get the information he wanted in some other way. Whatever threats Mycroft made, he could not let it go. He had to speak to the man.

 

Fortunately, he stayed busy and was able to put his fascination with Dr Jensen on hold. He read through some cold case files Lestrade had left with him, filing his mind on the details of several unrelated murders. Serials were always more interesting, but these were all cases that had baffled Scotland Yard, presenting more than the usual criminal lack of imagination.

It was after midnight when he felt his mind begin to go fuzzy, a sure sign that he was running on fumes. He got up from the couch and stretched. A night in his own bed would be nice. Though he only slept for a few hours each night, the transport sometimes let him down. Tonight he would try to have a proper sleep.

Though tired, he wasn’t sleepy. He lay in his bed, thinking about Peter Jensen. The man was a brilliant choice, so unobtrusive that he might have had some sort of magical cloaking device. It was by chance that Sherlock had even taken a second look, and that was saying something. He noticed everything, but he’d almost missed Peter Jensen.

He tried to conjure up that forgettable face in his mind. _Such a talent_ , he thought. His own face was ridiculously memorable, and the publicity over several murders of the past year drew attention. People on the street noticed him, looked at his face as if trying to place him. Every now and then, there was a sudden flash of recognition. _The detective bloke on the telly._ It was foolish, really, to have walked right into the publicity. He would have to work on some better disguises.

His mind went back over the unsolved cases, the ones he wasn’t supposed to think about. The body in the alley. The body in the hotel. The boy in the skip. More riddles.

It was all one riddle, he suspected. Unfortunately, suspicion was just a feeling. Facts were what he needed.

 

Sherlock sat up in bed, trembling from a vivid dream.

When he was a boy, a teacher had told him that he had no imagination. This was because he refused to construct a story without any clues to go on. Stories were explanations for things that had happened; they flowed from details which any fool could observe. How was he to create a story based on nothing? _No imagination_ , the verdict had been.

He’d believed it for a while, though, especially since he didn’t seem to dream, as other people did. He found his dreamless sleep restful, but psychologists imputed meaning to his inability to dream, further proof of his deficiency.

“You just don’t remember,” his brother told him.

“Not creative,” his father said. “Nothing wrong with that. The boy’s good at math; might make an excellent accountant.” This only showed how little attention Sherlock’s father paid to his own son.

His mother, paying constant attention, continued taking him to specialists - sleep specialists, brain doctors, psychologists.

One doctor insisted on brain scans, which showed that he experienced normal REM sleep. _Normal. Not a freak._ When awakened, however, he remembered no dreams.

He slept for five hours a night, maximum. As sleep overtook him, he often felt himself falling. He didn’t like standing on the edge of anything, especially a bridge or a balcony, or a rooftop.

Eventually, he did remember a dream. He was nine when it happened. In the dream, he was on a train. Opposite him sat a man with a moustache. He carried a cane; when he walked down the aisle, Sherlock could see that he had a limp. The only word he spoke was, “Sherlock.” He wanted to follow the man, but he felt worried about speaking to a stranger.

That was where the dream usually ended, with him trying to decide whether to follow or not.

In tonight’s dream, he found himself in the same setting, watching the man with the cane. The man looked at him and smiled. His face was familiar. _Peter Jensen_ , he realised.

As before, Jensen had beckoned to him, then walked though the door towards the next car, as if he expected him to follow. This time the dream did not end; Sherlock followed.

He entered another train car, where another man sat. Blond spiky hair, blue uniform. _Ian MacLeod._ He looked at Sherlock and rose, beckoning him to follow. They went through another door. 

In the next car sat an older woman holding a child, a small boy with blond hair. He looked at Sherlock mutely, his eyes sad. _John Watson_.

 _No wonder he’s sad,_ he thought. _He’ll soon be dead._ The child raised his hand, holding it out to Sherlock.

Holding out his hand, he walked towards the boy. As their fingers touched, he found himself on the roof of a building, looking down, while the boy looked up at him from the ground. The last thing he remembered was falling.

As he fell towards the ground, knowing that he would die in seconds, he felt as if he’d fallen in order to save John Watson.

Jerking awake, Sherlock sat up in bed, feeling profoundly disturbed.

At that point, he realised that he’d had this dream of falling before, but now it was somehow embedded within another dream, like a play within a play. Like mirrors reflecting one another across a space, creating infinite, endless rooms with infinite, endless mirrors.

 

He sat, eyes closed, hands palm to palm before his face, thinking. While he certainly didn’t believe dreams were prophetic or predictive of events, he knew that the brain can work on problems even while asleep. In his dream, Jensen led him to MacLeod, the assassin, because clearly these two were the same person. MacLeod led him to the boy, which reflected his conviction that the two cases were linked. But the boy in his dream also represented John Watson on some level, John who had died a long time ago. He’d held out his hand to Sherlock as John once had.

It might be as simple as emotion. When he saw the boy in the skip, he remembered John and felt both sad and angry. He vowed to solve it, _for John._

Jensen/MacLeod was working with Mycroft, who would never tell his brotherthe man’s real name or anything else about him. He was probably already regretting his admission that they worked together.

Mycroft could never understand why this was so important to him. _Sentiment,_ he might have reminded his younger brother, _is not an advantage._ For Mycroft, perhaps, it was possible to put emotion in a sheathe and keep it from cutting. But Sherlock’s heart had already been scored by that knife.

It was not possible to explain this. Mycroft was a good brother, steering him through the traumas of adolescence, helping him through the realisation that he was different (flawed). His descent into drugs had been his own attempt to self-medicate. Mycroft would not allow it. _Your mind does not require remedy. You are not ordinary. Ordinary people take drugs because they are trapped in limited minds._

Over the years, John had floated with him, an invisible presence that seemed to reach out a hand to him. What it meant, he could not express. At times, he felt alone, even lonely. And he felt that small hand touching his. It comforted him to think of John, living his life in another place, perhaps remembering Sherlock.

Learning that John had died was the beginning of his last relapse, one he still had not overcome. He did not have the words to explain this to Mycroft, how sentiment had kept him alive, and how its loss had broken his heart.

He would solve this.

 

He visited Linda again. “Anything on Ian MacLeod?”

Her smile was wide. “He lived,” she said. “Moved around a bit, lots of foster families, but he grew up, went to uni, joined the army.”

“Where is he now?”

“Hard to say. The trail ends at his enlistment. No death record, though. He’s alive.”

He nodded. The information she’d turned up still didn’t confirm that he’d become an assassin, but the military connection made sense. A photograph could determine whether the abused child and the grown assassin were the same person or not. “Do you have any photos of him as an adult?”

She shook her head. “No pictures. Once he was out of the foster system, he was no longer tracked. I had to dig a bit, call in some favours to turn up his uni transcript.”

Remembering that he might need her help again, he said, “Thank you. I appreciate all you’ve done. Perhaps the university has a picture. Where did you say he was enrolled?”

“University of London. Undergraduate and medical school.”

“Medical school? He’s a doctor, then?” _Deduction confirmed_ , he thought.

“Pretty impressive, I thought, for him to turn out so well.” She smiled again. “Let me know if you find him. I love a success story.”

He nodded and began to pull the door open.

“Oh, Sherlock—” she called after him. “If you go to the school and ask, you need to know that he changed his name. Now he goes by John Watson.”

 _John Watson._ He felt all the air rush out of his lungs. His knees wobbled. “What did you say?”

“Common name,” she said. “There’s probably more than one at the U of London. He was in the class of ’95. Ask for Joan. She’s the one I spoke with.”

As he turned to leave, she said, “Oh, and the other boy, the one in the skip. You were right. No name yet, but he’s all over the internet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get crazy.


	9. A Lifetime of Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names Glossary:  
> Watson is once again using the name James.  
> His code name is Alexander Borodin.

Mary wasn’t coming. She’d texted him her regrets, saying that something had come up and she couldn’t get away. It had happened before, but this time it frustrated him. He’d been set on meeting her here, at the bar of the Lennox Hotel, and ending it. A clean, honest break. He was sure she would understand. And he would feel that they were both safer, somehow.

Instead, he found himself sitting at the bar, fiddling with his mobile. He ordered another drink.

He’d met Harry at Euston station that morning, bought her ticket and said goodbye.

 _Stay in touch_ , he reminded her. _Let's not lose one another again._

And she’d promised. In the light of day, she looked a bit better. Maybe his offer to buy her the ticket had left her less worried, finally able to sleep. He’d given her a few pounds to buy some lunch and in case she needed to get a cab when she arrived. She’d thanked him. _There’s a rehab program there_ , she said. _I got a referral_.

Maybe she’d be all right. At least she was alive. _Talk soon_ , he said. He wrote his number on a slip of paper. _Call me when you get there_.

The bartender set another drink in front of him.

He needed to process what had happened at Janacek’s house. His mind still pictured Sherlock as a child, a boy with a violin, a shy, gawky student bullied by his classmates. He wished that he’d taken a closer look at what he’d become. Time and again, he’d imagined meeting the adult Sherlock, but unnerved as he’d felt, he hadn’t taken in as much as he normally did. Ordinarily, anyone who burst into his awareness was carefully scanned and the threat evaluated. He’d automatically begun to do this, until Janacek had said, _Sherlock._ No, there could not be two tall, thirty-something men with curly dark hair named _Sherlock_. It was the same person— ironic that he should turn out to be the brother of the man he worked with.

Watson didn’t answer to anyone other than Janacek. He communicated only with the man himself and the woman who called herself Anthea. That was how his position had been set up. Janacek was his partner, Anthea was their handler, the person who gave the orders and debriefed them. He would be surprised if anyone she worked with even knew he existed. That was how far up the ladder the woman was, that she could employ agents and send them where she needed them without anyone’s approval, give them orders of her own.

Watson was a non-person carrying a fake ID and a mobile whose memory was cleared daily. Every number he needed to know he had memorised. The mail that showed up in his box at the flat was all addressed to _Occupant_. He had a secure email account, rjsmith1881@email.com. Outside of Mary, there was no one he might describe as a friend.And she was both more and less than that descriptor suggested.

 _I could die_ , he thought, _and no one would even know who I was_.He had often imagined being shot in some Eastern European country, the Balkans, most likely. He would lie on a slab in the morgue, unclaimed, unidentified. Janacek could have nothing to do with him if that happened. It might have been sad, but to Watson, it was a bit comforting. He did not want recognition. He wanted to slip out of life like a guest bowing out of a party early. He had no reasons to linger.

But Sherlock was a ghost from his past. He remembered those few months vividly. There were many things in his childhood that he had made himself forget, but Sherlock was not one of them.

He remembered the moment all those years ago when their hands had met, holding on as if they could communicate through touch. It might have lasted 30 seconds, though it had felt much longer. In those seconds, he felt the other boy’s apology, his sorrow that they had not been friends. It hollowed him out, this longing for that hand and the boy who might have been his friend. There was a lifetime of regret in that brief contact.

But that had been the very beginning of his own redemption. He stood up to Sherlock’s bullies first, then his own demons. He spent a year in foster homes after that, holding himself apart, keeping himself together, believing that he would escape. _I will hold you in my heart,_ the touch seemed to say. _Don’t forget me._

And he had pushed Ian MacLeod into a dark abyss, one containing all the memories he would not let himself access. He became John Watson, a boy who stood up for himself.

Then his father, imprisoned for robbery, was released. He went looking for him and Harry. He didn’t go through the system, but somehow he found them. He became Ian once more, and the abuse resumed. The difference was that now he did not feel alone. He remembered that he could be John Watson, who for one day had been friends with Sherlock Holmes. Even after Harry ran away, that moment of contact with another soul remained.

Whatever had happened in this reality or the other world he still remembered, John Watson had become part of the foster system, living in different homes for weeks or months at a time, until he crossed a line, hit another kid, stole something, cussed out a teacher or foster parent, and eventually, after a long time, aged out, still possessing enough talent and intelligence and drive to go to uni.

This was all blurry in his mind, like the daydreams he used to entertain himself with, fantasies where Sherlock’s family would take him in, let him live with them, maybe even adopt him. He'd never even met Sherlock ’s family, but he dreamed that as a boy he had shared a room with him in a big, beautiful house with a huge yard and a paddock of horses out back. There was a narrow beach, and a boat they used when they pretended to be pirates. They would play with an Irish Setter, run along the beach, embrace under the covers at night. In that world that never existed, they grew up together, and he had learned what it was to be loved.

Truly loved. That childish vision sustained him whenever he felt most unloved. And when he realised it would not ever happen that way, he still dreamed of how he might find Sherlock some day and say, _thank you for saving me._

But he hadn’t. He thought of it, but realised how foolish it would be. Either Sherlock would remember him and would expect something— at least friendship. And he wouldn’t be able to give him that, not now. He was no longer a man who could have friends.

Or Sherlock would not remember him. And then all those dreams would be over. A dream, however unrealistic and unlikely, can still sustain a person as long as reality hasn’t contradicted it. A dream denied, though… he was surprised at the grief he felt at this thought. As long as Sherlock remained a dream, he could imagine finding him, loving him, being loved by him…

He looked around the bar, sipping his scotch. There were several women, all sitting with other people. The woman at the corner table was about fifty, attractive, having drinks with a younger man who obviously worked for her. Watson liked older women; they were certainly less trouble than the young ones. He watched her run her fingers through her dyed auburn hair, sweeping it off her face. A few lines around her mouth said she was a smoker. He didn’t like kissing smokers. Other than that, she was fit enough to consider. Perhaps her legs were a bit too skinny. But she had already picked her target and was doing her best to get him interested.

A younger woman (late twenties?) was having a drink with another woman, slightly older. The younger woman was somewhat plump, but not unpleasantly so. Her long, blond hair was drawn up in a messy bun. Her eyes were heavily mascaraed, her eyebrows too perfect. When did women start caring so much about eyebrows? It wasn’t a feature he generally thought about. This woman had a nice, round bum, and that interested him far more than her eyebrows.

Her companion, though somewhat older (mid thirties?) was wearing a tight blouse, the top button open to show more cleavage. She noticed his gaze and released the next button, giving him a slow smile.

He looked away, pretending that he’d just received a text. The woman turned back to her friend, said something. They both looked his way and giggled.

After several minutes pretending that he’d received an important communication requiring his immediate attention, he flipped his mobile closed. They stood up and sidled over to him.

“Hi,” the younger one said. “You look a bit lonely. Thought we’d keep you company for a while, buy you a drink.”

“She’s Jen, by the way,” the older one said. “I’m Sarah.”

He raised his glass. “I’m James,” he said. “Cheers.”

“So, James,” Jen said. “Do you come here often?”

A more cliche opening he could not imagine. Obviously they wanted a threesome, but he suddenly felt weary. Maybe he should have just gone home to the flat, put on some Mozart, poured his own scotch, and ordered Vietnamese food. “My first time, actually.”

“Oh,” said Sarah, giving him a meaningful smile. “It’s our first time as well.” Double entendre?

A waiter came over, took their order (Cutty Sark for him, a Mojito for Sarah, a Lemon Drop Martini for Jen).

The women giggled a bit, tasted each other’s drinks, and smiled at him. They had clearly noted the lack of a ring on his left hand, given each other a look that acknowledged it. In fact, he wore no jewellery at all, not even a single earring that might have proclaimed his orientation.

He didn’t feel like raising their hopes, but they had just paid for his drink. He could make conversation for the time it took to drink one more scotch. He took a sip of his drink, feeling a bit more relaxed. He’d come here for sex, and here were two women practically begging for it—

“What brings you here, James?” Jen asked.

“I was meeting someone, but it seems I’ve been stood up,” he replied.

“Dreadful,” Sarah said. “I can’t imagine what she was thinking.”

He smiled, but said nothing. Long habit.

Afterwards he remembered little of their conversation. It was all cliche, it seemed. Flirting and saying trite things. Another round of drinks. 

 

He opened his eyes, not sure where he was. Groggy, he fumbled around for his mobile, felt an unfamiliar bedside table. Pad of paper, pen. Lamp.

He sat up. The room was dark, its heavy curtains pulled shut. Feeling a bit nauseous, he tried to stand, sank back onto the bed, noting that he was naked.

Hotel room. _What city was this?_

 _London_ , he remembered. He’d been back from Bucharest a day or so. Maybe more.

Muzzily, he reached for the lamp and tried to find the switch. _What have I done?_

He wasn’t an extreme drinker, hadn’t been really pissed for years. No, it wasn’t a hangover. He’d been drinking, yes, but. But.

As always, he’d kept an eye on the tally, knew when to slow down, order a seltzer, take his leave. There were two women, he recalled. They bought him a drink. They wanted to have a threesome, he’d surmised, but he was tired and planned to say no just as soon as he’d repaid their generosity by buying them a round.

 _Have I been drugged?_ He knew what that felt like, how easy it was to slip something into a drink, and always guarded his glass. This stupor felt like drugs, but he had no idea how or when or why. _Rohypnol_ , perhaps.

 _How could I be so stupid?_ He tried to remember his lapse, but couldn’t. They were drinking, flirting a bit, but nothing serious. No one had mentioned sex. Not yet. He had their drinks refilled, once.

He felt like he might have had sex, but didn’t remember taking his clothes off. He thought he would have remembered being with naked women.

Finally he found the switch. The lamp showed him that he was indeed in a hotel room. The bedclothes were mussed, but the room showed no sign of a party, no piles of cast-off clothing, no bodies but his own.

He stood unsteadily and made his way to the loo. Before he relieved himself, it occurred to him that he should preserve his urine for drug-testing. He grabbed a cardboard coffee cup, peed into it, and fastened a top on it, put it inside a plastic laundry bag and knotted it.

He looked into the mirror. Eyes puffy, red. No signs of violence. Scar still there.

His bum felt tender, a sure sign that something had penetrated him. The two women—

 _And the man_.

He tried to recall a face, but it eluded him.

Were they all four together? Had they each gone with a woman? Or had he and the man paired off from the women?

He looked into the trash. Several condom wrappers. No condoms, but they were undoubtedly flushed.

 _Oh, God._ He’d always been careful, thought he’d been careful last night. He didn’t object to sex with strangers, but he’d never experienced this, waking and not remembering his partner. He felt sure he’d had sex, but the tenderness in his bum told him that it hadn’t been with a woman.

He found his mobile behind the lamp, opened it. 11:33. Mid-day. He didn’t remember signing the register for a room, but knew he would be expected to check out soon. In the corridor, he could hear a maid hoovering.

The mobile. Was there anything on it that someone might have found? He’d deleted his call history while he was sitting by himself at the bar. Thank god for that.

A text had come in at 22:43, indicating that a message was waiting for him. Another text had arrived at 8:00 with his new code. He quickly memorised the number.

As partners, they had developed the habit of leaving a daily check-in message for the other, just to let them know all was well. He dialled the message centre, used his new code to sign in, verified his identity.

Janacek’s voice: “You may not hear from me for a few days, Alex. I hope you pick this up soon. Lie low. Anthea will give you details. I’m undercover, so don’t look to hear from me. Be safe, my friend.”

His voice sounded calm, but Watson sensed that something had happened. Perhaps it was not an accident, then, that he had been drugged. Had he not been unconscious when the text arrived, he would have left the bar and talked with Anthea by now.

He pressed the pound key to reply. “Jan—” he began. What could he say? “I’ve been compromised. I hope you’re safe… I’m calling it in now.”

There was another number he needed to call next, one he’d memorised but never had to use. He dialled and used his code to sign in.

“Alexander,” said a voice. “Confirm.”

“Borodin,” he replied. “171082.”

The voice gave him an address, assured him that his handler would be notified.

He drew a deep breath, realising that he needed to hurry now. Emotionally, he was exhausted. His brain was still groggy, unable to put it all together. _One thing at a time._ _Focus: inventory_.

His wallet contained Peter Jensen’s ID and some cash. All accounted for.

After turning on the lights, he walked around the room, observing everything. He found his clothes on the desk chair, folded somewhat neatly. The carpet was not plush and yielded no footprints. The desk and bedside table were covered with glass. He used his pocket torch to scan surfaces for signs of prints. No luck, which was odd. A hotel room so well cleaned that there were no obvious fingerprints, even on the smoothest surfaces? Whoever had been in this room with him had been careful not to leave a trace.

 _Focus: get out._ He put on his clothing and slung his bag over his shoulder. Better to avoid the lift and the lobby, he decided, heading down the stairs. Once outside, he walked quickly, keeping his head down.

 

He could not make any other calls now, not without breaking protocol and endangering those who might help him. Cursing his carelessness, frustrated with the procedure he must now follow, he walked to the address he’d been given, letting the exercise clear the drugs from his mind.

He found the address, a plain-looking block of flats on a quiet street. He pushed open the heavy door and entered the dark foyer. The flat was on an upper floor; there was no lift, so he climbed. Surprisingly, his legs shook. Though he’d trained for such a turn-up, it felt strange and unsettling to be following the protocol that had been drilled into him for years. Not once had he ever found himself in this position. Whether through his own skills or pure luck, he’d never been compromised.

He keyed in the code he’d received and turned the knob. Once he’d entered, he immediately locked the door behind him and drew a deep breath, willing his panic to subside.A tidy efficiency flat, he realised with relief, not another hotel. He drew a couple of slow breaths, remembering that there was nothing to be done until someone arrived to debrief him.

He checked the refrigerator; it was stocked with water bottles and a few basic condiments. The freezer contained several frozen dinners that might be heated in the microwave. There was tea and sugar and powdered milk.

In the bedroom he found a bed made up, clean towels and a plush robe in the bath, as well as a toothbrush, a hair dryer, a razor, and travel-sized toiletries.

He returned to the sitting area and sank into a chair. A television was in one corner, and a small stereo system on the shelf beneath. There were a few books and magazines on the table, nothing that interested him at the moment. He did not worry about entertaining himself; he felt exhausted.

How long might it be before someone contacted him? Would it be Anthea, or someone else? Never having been in this position, he didn’t know what to expect. His heart was still pounding, insisting that he was in danger and needed to flee, not ready to accept safety.

He wondered what would happen to him. Was he expendable? Would his presence endanger others? Perhaps the next person he saw would be one who held a gun to his temple and erased his mistake, whatever it had been. He knew this was possible, and had always accepted it. He’d known from the day he sat in front of the desk in Room 29 that death was always just a couple of mistakes away.

 _But, oh, God_. How he suddenly wanted to live.

He thought of Sherlock, and how his heart had leaped in his chest when he heard that name, when their eyes met. How he wished that they might have met again, and that he might have been able to tell him _thank you._

Foolishly sentimental.


	10. A Kind of Poetic Justice

The boy had smelled dirty the first day he’d joined the class. Now he was scrubbed, his hair still long, but clean, his clothing washed. He was quiet, but not shy, Sherlock saw. Disappointed, not defeated. Wary, but not afraid.

John struggled with maths, and the teacher assigned Sherlock to tutor him. He’d failed a test, and Miss Hayes had decided that since he hadn’t been with the class when the unit began, he should have another chance, a new test to replace the failed one. She put them in a corner where they could work quietly, undisturbed by the math lesson the other children were doing. Sherlock already knew long division, fractions, and exponents, and everything else his classmates would be doing for the next three years.

The problem they were looking at involved maps. Handing the pencil to John, he said, “Show me how you do it.”

John took the pencil, licked his lips, and stared at the paper. “Where are we.” He had a strange, flat intonation, as if he’d forgotten the question mark.

“We’re not really on this map,” said Sherlock. “It’s just for the maths problem.”

“Where are we then.”

“We’re here,” he said, pointing to where Harlow would be. “But we’re pretending we’re in London, and that we need to figure out the quickest route to the shore.”

“Why are we going to the shore.”

“Maybe we’re going on holiday. Does it matter?”

John chewed his lip. “Can we go to Glasgow.”

“If that’s closest,” Sherlock said. Glasgow wasn’t one of the choices, but at least John seemed interested. “Have you ever been there?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock looked at the map. “I don’t think it’s closest, but let’s see.” He handed John the ruler. “Measure the distance in inches.”

John measured, wrote down the number. Sherlock showed him the map’s legend, explained what it was, and showed John how to multiply to find the distance.

“Four hundred miles.” John rubbed his nose. “Far away.”

“What about Brighton?” Sherlock suggested. “A lot of people go there on holiday.”

John did the measurement, multiplied, and showed Sherlock the result.

“Very good. Fifty-four miles. How about Portsmouth?”

Again, John repeated the procedure flawlessly. “If we had a boat,” he said, “we could sail down the river.” He traced the Thames with his finger. “That would be more fun.”

“That’s not one of the choices,” Sherlock said. “There’s only four answers you can choose.”

John frowned.“I would choose to be a pirate,” he said. “Then I could go wherever I want.”

That was the only conversation they ever had. Maths time was over, and it was recess. The bullies attacked him and John was expelled.

He hadn’t told John, but becoming a pirate was what his parents called one of his _silly dreams_. They explained to him that pirates were not the way they seemed in books and movies. They were actually criminals who stole people’s money and burned down their houses. Mycroft, at least, had understood enough to give him a pirate hat and a wooden sword for his eighth birthday, but there wasn’t anyone to play with, and gradually he’d given up trying to pretend. He wondered if John had anyone to play pirate with. Maybe people told him the same thing: _you’re too old to play pirates. Go read a book._

 

He sat with his laptop open. He’d fixed himself a cup of tea and even eaten a couple of biscuits, just to settle himself.

There were many John Watsons in the world. It was not outside the realm of possibility that there was another John Watson born in the same year as _his_ John. In fact, it was likely that several were born that year in the UK. It was not impossible that there were many John Watsons with blond hair and blue eyes. Or that there were other John Watsons who were MDs.

He found sixteen pages of John Watsons in the telephone directory. He did an online search and turned up 9,193 John Watsons, various ages and locations.

The universe was obviously lazy. Incredibly so. For it to scatter so many John Watsons in his path was almost enough to make him reconsider whether coincidence was more than a random juxtaposition of apparently related events.

He didn’t believe in coincidence. At the same time, the universe allowed for anything that could possibly happen to take place— the key being the word _possible._ Even in a world filled with coincidence, the impossible was still impossible.

And it was not possible that _his_ John Watson was alive. If he hadn't seen the pictures, read the report, stood at the grave, he might have been able to believe that John Watson had not died. It might have been possible. But he couldn't be mistaken. He couldn't unsee those photos. They had given him many nightmares, many excuses to return to drugs.

_Focus._

Ian MacLeod, assassin, was a man of many identities, multiple aliases. His real name might not be Ian MacLeod. _What kind of assassin uses his own name?_

An abused boy named Ian MacLeod had grown up and changed his name to John Watson, which also happened to be the name of an abused boy. Improbable, but not impossible.

He paced the room for a while, but his mind kept butting up against that gravestone: _RIP John Watson, 1974-1984._

He made another cup of tea. He thought, _if a man made a career of killing child molesters, if he needed to use aliases to accomplish this, might he chose the name of an abused child?_ A kind of poetic justice seemed to be at work here: child molesters symbolically killed by their victims. Victims who might even rise from the grave, symbolically.

Perhaps Ian MacLeod had known John Watson. They might have been friends. He’d survived, and John had died. He’d taken his friend’s identity when he turned eighteen, leaving behind his abused path and choosing, for some reason, to carry the memory of a murdered boy with him.

_I will find Ian MacLeod, whoever he is. And I will ask him._

 

The alumni office was not busy. The woman at the front desk looked bored. “May I help you?”

“Are you Joan?” he asked. _People in offices ought to wear name tags,_ he thought. Generally he tried to forget names as soon as they stopped being useful. Tags would definitely fix all those embarrassing moments when he was supposed to remember someone’s name after he’d already deleted it.

“I am,” she said. _A bit shirty_ , he thought, as if she suspected that he was going to challenge her identity.

“I’m trying to find someone,” he said. “An old roommate.”

She thawed a bit, clearly used to questions about old roommates. “What year?”

“1995, I think. His name is John Watson.”

She nodded. “Linda sent you.” She pulled a drawer open and thumbed through the files. “Watson’s a fairly common name. I’ve got three in that year.”

“Do you have a yearbook? If I saw a picture…”

She left and came back carrying a large, bound book with 1995 embossed on the cover. “Here you go.”

He went straight for the W’s, ran his finger down the page until he saw it.

At eighteen, Ian MacLeod, aka John Watson, had a boyish look; blond hair that hadn’t darkened much, blue eyes, and a hint of a smile, but with several layers of wariness.

The most interesting thing about this face that smiled out at him, though, was that it was clearly the face of the assassin. This confirmed that the child known as Ian MacLeod, who’d changed his name to John Watson, was in fact the man who’d posed as a masseur and murdered Llewellyn Smith.

He snapped a photo of the yearbook picture with his mobile camera.

“Do you have an address for him?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He enlisted in the army. Don't know where he is now.”

Further data required. He needed to talk to the assassin.

 

He had put his homeless network on the case of the Absent Assassin. The man had disappeared.

The data he’d collected refused to fall into a pattern. He was sure that Lestrade would just say, _Well?_ and shrug his shoulders. _What do you expect?_ So far there were not enough pieces to slot together in any meaningful way, but he hoped that soon they would.

The dead boy in the skip was clearly an immigrant, a victim of human trafficking and child pornography.

Llewellyn Jones (and maybe the body in the alley) were both assassinated, possibly by the same person. Speculation: both victims were involved in child trafficking?

MacLeod was the piece that tied the boy to the other bodies. That was the link he could not discover.

It could, he admitted, be a coincidence that an exploited child grew up to be an assassin who found himself sitting on a train across from another exploited child while he was on his way to assassinate a man who trafficked in slaves. While it was possible that the man and the boy randomly found themselves in the same train car on the very morning the man was on his way to murder a trafficker, he doubted it. That boy was being trafficked, the man in the hotel room was involved, and the assassin had become what he was because of exploitation and abuse. None of these connections, however, could be firmly established, not with the evidence he had now. He wasn’t even sure what he ought to be looking for.

He speculated. Maybe the woman had an appointment with Jones, planning to turn the boy over to him. Maybe MacLeod knew and was trying to prevent it. The train stopped. MacLeod got off, found a way above ground to make his appointment with the man. The woman and the child remained stuck. By the time they got off the train, the man might have already been dead in his hotel.

But what happened to the boy? Where had the woman taken him? Had anyone checked the hotel cameras?

And what had happened to Ian MacLeod?

 

He needed a more recent picture of Watson. If his homeless network was having no luck, perhaps it was because they didn’t know who they were looking for. He was positive that his brother had a photo, but he’d already been warned not to pursue the matter. He did an internet image search which turned up nothing, as expected. A man doesn’t go to work as an assassin for the British government without his online presence being erased. In movies, government agents were always able to pull up professional-looking glossy photographs of spies on the other side. _Laughable_. People who worked as spies and assassins and and infiltrated syndicates had people who made sure their faces were not known.

He looked at the CCTV footage from the train again. Not as clear as the hotel footage, but at least there was one full face shot. He had snapped a picture of Watson’s yearbook photo. And he himself had seen the man face to face, close enough to shake his hand.

He picked up his mobile and called Lestrade.

“I need a police artist,” he said. “For a freelance job. Can you recommend someone?”

 

Jay Barnes had been drawing police sketches for thirty years, he told Sherlock. “Computer software can’t do my job. Know why?”

He didn’t.

“Psychology,” he said. “When people see a computer-generated age-progression, it looks like a photo, and photos are supposed to be realistic. People look at it and think they haven’t seen that exact face. If they look at an artist’s sketch, they see it differently. They don’t expect it to be perfect or completely accurate. They see the details as negotiable. They remember people they saw and compare them to the sketch.”

“Interesting,” he said. “The tech department tried to refine the CCTV images into something sharper, more defined, but I’ve seen the man in person, and what they produced didn’t look right at all.”

Barnes grinned. “That’s why I’ll never be out of a job. I’ll look at whatever images you’ve got, and you can help me understand what’s missing.”

He worked at his sketch for a while, looking at the yearbook picture and the freeze frame from the train, supplemented by the less usable footage from the hotel security cameras. “How’s this look?”

“Too young. He’s in his mid-thirties. His face is less round, a bit squarer, especially the jaw. Some facial lines, particularly around the eyes. Hair is shorter, probably a shade darker now.”

He added details, erased some of the facial contours and re-drew them. “How are the eyes? That’s something hard to capture.”

Sherlock looked at the face before him now. The eyes were nearly perfect, but the man he’d met at his brother’s house looked tired, wary. “He’s a bit jaded. I don’t know if that’s something you can capture.”

Barnes did something to the eyes. When he turned the pad towards Sherlock, he nearly gasped. “You’ve done it. One more question, though. Can you do a second sketch with a beard? I’m guessing he’s in disguise, and a beard generally changes appearance quite a bit.”

In the end, Barnes produced two sketches that he was able to reproduce and circulate among his homeless network. But he still heard nothing from his Irregulars for several days.

 

He called Lestrade. “What if the woman and boy on the train were going to meet Llewellyn Jones?”

“And what makes you think that, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, clearly weary of talking about a case he’d been asked to drop.

“Obviously, he was trafficked. He was on the train going towards the hotel where a trafficker was staying. Can you please have someone check? Or do I have to do this myself?”

“We don’t know that Llewellyn Jones was anything other than a business man with back trouble.”

“There is no other hypothesis that fits the facts. He was murdered— assassinated— in a way that suggests organised crime.” He sighed and turned to leave. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

“Stay out of it,” Lestrade called after him.

 

He went straight to the main desk.

The woman behind the desk was typing something into the computer. She plastered on a fake smile. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to whoever was on duty at this desk on Friday, May seventh.”

She frowned. “Is this a complaint? If it is—”

“Not a complaint. This is a police matter.” He flashed Lestrade’s badge. “The man who died in room 317.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Yes, I remember. I was working the desk that day.”

He pulled out the sketch that was published in the newspaper. “Did you see this boy? It would have been after one-thirty. Maybe two o’clock or later. He would have been with an older woman.”

She frowned at the picture. “Yes, I remember the woman. Didn’t look too closely at the kid, but he had blond hair. He peeked over the edge of the desk at me. She had an accent. I didn’t realise—

“What room did you ring for them?”

“I don’t remember. The call was quick. I rang, but there was no answer. When I told them that, they left.” She looked a bit stricken. “Is that the boy who died? The one they found?”

He nodded. “If you think of anything else, call me at this number.” He scrawled his mobile number on the pad.

One more piece, fallen in place.


	11. The Moment You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names Glossary:  
> Watson uses the name Mr Brooks.

He had received his daily text and memorised the number, acknowledged it without leaving a message. That was the protocol. He felt stranded, not knowing what had happened to Janacek. Normally his speculation would have been rational, but now he found his imagination budging in with all sorts of unpleasant scenarios. _Too many unknowns_.

He examined the frozen meals. There were fourteen, enough for seven days. Breakfast would be tea, he supposed. He didn’t feel hungry, but heated up a pasta meal and ate it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten.

The loneliness was strange and unexpected. He’d always been alone, never sought close relationships, but now he was dying to talk to someone. He thought of calling Harry, but didn’t have a number for her. She was supposed to call him when she arrived. That should have been yesterday afternoon, he thought. He would have been sitting at the bar then, having a drink with Sarah and Jen. Getting drugged and whatever else had happened afterwards.

Since he didn’t really know this Harry, the one who’d grown up and still ended up with a messed up life, he wasn’t sure whether she would even call. He’d given her some money, not a lot, and bought her a train ticket, with the understanding that she’d head for Glasgow and straighten herself out. He wondered how many times she’d made that promise to him. He knew that there was a strong possibility that she’d used the money for drugs, that she hadn’t checked into rehab. Maybe she hadn’t even gone to Glasgow. He hadn’t actually seen her board the train. She might have sold her ticket, he realised.

He’d done his duty, he decided. She was his sister, and he loved her, and he’d given her a new start, a chance to prove herself. If she didn’t take it, he would be disappointed, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. But he’d feel a whole lot better if she called.

For the hundredth time, he thought about Sherlock. He might know where his brother was, but probably not. Obviously, he couldn’t contact him. Still, it was fascinating that he’d run into him in this new reality. The chances of them seeing one another again were slim, but not non-existent. Sherlock didn’t know who he was, and Watson was fairly sure that he’d long ago forgotten the boy in his class who’d been expelled for making threats and using foul language. It would be best to stop thinking about him. He told himself this, but deciding this was about as effective as trying not to think about a polar bear. _Ironic rebound,_ they called it. Having seen the man, it was impossible not to think about him.

 

It was Anthea who finally showed up. Though less than two hours had passed since he’d called, Watson felt wrung out with anxiety. She’d brought him some groceries, a loaf of bread, some eggs and fresh milk, as well as hair dye and a set of clippers.

She was business-like, as always, pulled out a syringe and drew two vials of blood from his arm. “Maybe nothing left at this point, depending on what they used. We’ll need to check for other things as well.”

He grimaced. _HIV, herpes, clamydia, syphilis, gonnorhea_. “I think there was a condom.” Really, he had no idea. “Pretty sure I’m not pregnant,” he joked.

Anthea did not smile. He handed her the urine sample.

She nodded. “Good thinking.” He felt vastly reassured by this simple praise. Maybe he hadn’t fucked up irrevocably. Maybe he wasn’t expendable yet.

He knew that date rape drugs needed to be tested for within a couple days of the incident, so he was hopeful something would show up in his blood. The alcohol was certainly gone by now, but most drugs that would cause the amnesia and paralysis would not metabolise so quickly.

She asked him for descriptions; he tried, but their faces were blurry now, two generic, bar-hopping women. Short, tall; blond, brunette, mid-twenties, early thirties. He remembered the names. “Sarah and Jen.” The man was blurrier than the women. “He was taller than me, I think.” Well, most men were taller than him. He remembered dark eyes burning into him. “His name was James,” he said, suddenly. “I think.” Sounded like a joke. _Two men named James walk into a bar_ …

“We checked the room. No prints, nothing,” Anthea said. “Paid for with cash. I’ve got people looking at the hotel security footage.”

He rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble. Maybe there’d be time to grow a beard before he was set free. “What about the bar?”

She nodded. “We’re looking at it. Two women, as you described.”

“The man?”

“You left the bar with the two women.”

“There was a man. James.” He rubbed the back of his neck, exasperated and embarrassed. “Look, I know I had sex with a man. The women must have seen him, if they walked out of the bar with me.”

“We’re looking for them.”

He remembered something Janacek always said: _there are no coincidences._ Accepting something as a random event makes you lazy, lets you stop looking for causes. Anthea knew this too, and would doubtless follow up on every detail of his story.

“Anything else?” she asked. “Even if it doesn't seem important.”

He closed his eyes, went through the evening in his mind. Big pieces were missing. He’d been drugged before and usually had a moment when he realised what was happening before he succumbed; this time he couldn’t even remember feeling fuzzy. He and the two women were chatting. He’d had two drinks at that point and still felt lucid. Then a few isolated moments. Dark eyes, a lilting voice, high-pitched laughter. Then waking up in bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t remember much of what happened.” It was humiliating to admit, but he had to be truthful. _Drug-induced amnesia, probably from whatever they gave him._

She nodded. “Let’s take care of your hair,” she said. “Are you keeping the beard?”

“I guess.” He was having trouble putting his thoughts together. Usually he was quick at deciding. Now he felt as if his brain was slogging through a bog. “What colour is that dye?”

“I’ve got lighter and darker than what you’ve got now. Which do you fancy?” She spread a sheet under the chair, tied a cape around his shoulders.

He shook his head, sat in the chair. “Just buzz it. Military cut.” It would grow out a dark ash blond, his natural colour.

“You’ll stay here until you hear from me,” she said, plugging in the clippers. “You won’t receive your daily text until things are resolved.”

“If something happens…” he began. “In case I need to check in…” _In case you forget about me or leave me on ice, cooling my heels while you plan my unfortunate demise…_

She began cutting his hair. “Your mobile is secure. Just don’t call anyone besides me. This is just protocol, you understand.”

“I’m waiting to hear from my sister. She left for Glasgow yesterday and was supposed to call. I don’t have a number for her.”

“I’ll see if I can locate her,” Anthea replied. He didn’t ask what she knew about Harry. He had no doubt that she knew his entire family history. “Anyone else?”

“Is Jan all right? I had a message that he might be undercover.”

“He’s fine. I’ll relay to him what’s happened, but you should not contact him. Is there anyone else you need to contact?”

“No.” This wasn’t strictly true. He might need to contact Mary, if she had emailed him.

His paranoia spiked. What if Mary had set up the liaison she failed to show up for in order to compromise him? He had never suspected her of espionage, but after last night, he had to admit that anything was possible. Getting involved with her was a mistake. He thought he'd been careful, but that meant nothing. Something else Janacek always said: _you never know if you can trust someone, until the moment you know you can't._

 _Not Mary,_ he thought. He was good at sussing people out, and she had passed muster. She didn’t know his real name or where he lived. They communicated solely by emails. He’d been careful and was sure he could trust her.

But maybe he'd just learned that he shouldn't have been so trusting. She knew where he would be, could have set up the whole thing. Though why she would do such a thing, he had no idea. Chastened, he resolved to avoid all long-term entanglements.

Anthea took the sheet and the cape and put them in a trash bag. Then she swept the floor.

“Alex,” she said, regarding him with uncharacteristic concern. “If you need to talk, we do have people for that. I can arrange it.”

“People?” He thought about what this might mean. Perhaps they needed to go over his actions, analyse his mistakes, which were considerable. They might pull him off the job for a while, give him some retraining. He'd heard of that happening. “Er… I think I’m okay. Won’t happen again.”

“You’re probably still in a state of shock. But when something like this happens, there are often delayed symptoms of stress, depression—”

“Look, I know I messed up. I own that—”

She shook her head. “That's not what I mean. You were raped, Alex.”

“No, I wasn't.” He gave a short laugh. “It was a wild night, but nobody raped me.”

“Did you give consent?”

“I must have. Christ, I was drinking with two women who wanted a threesome. The fact that I was considering it sort of makes it my fault.”

“You barely remember what happened. The man— did you agree to have sex with him?”

“Maybe. I can't remember. But I might have.” _I've got to stop doing this_ , he thought. _I'm not a kid anymore, picking up one night stands_. “Anthea, I'm not a victim here. I accept responsibility for what happened. I will make corrections. Don’t worry about me.”

She nodded but did not look convinced. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Alex. Nor should you ignore what you’re feeling. Men often do. Believe me, I’ve handled a lot of agents, and this is not unusual. Let me know if you start to feel anxious or depressed. Don't be embarrassed. It’s quite normal. As I said, we have people.”

He tried to process this. Was she saying that she doubted she would ever trust him again, or was she simply expressing sympathy for what he’d been through. Thinking back, he had trouble feeling traumatised over something he couldn’t even remember. _My mistake. My fault._

As soon as she left, he dialled into the call centre. She said _no calls_ but he felt so anxious he had to check. No message from Janacek. Normal, under the circumstances. He’s said he’d be incommunicado, that Alex should lie low. He left him no message, though right now he would have given much to hear his voice, even if only to scold him for his foolishness.

 _Raped_. Had he been raped? Did he feel violated? He thought of all the men his father had offered him to, all the men he’d offered himself to after he was old enough to give consent. As a child, he’d been a victim. Had he continued that victimisation by his own actions and choices? He’d hated his father for what he did. But he’d done to himself what he’d hated his father for doing. He’d only ever looked for disposable relationships with others.

Perhaps he was incapable of a real relationship. It seemed the only close relationship he’d managed to sustain was with his partner, a fellow assassin and undercover agent. And they were not all that close. Once he’d dreamed of a big house with a paddock of horses, several dogs, a pirate ship, and sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes. All of these dreams suddenly seemed childish and silly.

Feeling cold for no logical reason, he pulled on a hat and wrapped himself in a blanket. Still, he shivered.

 

A day went by with no more word from Anthea.He had hoped to hear from Janacek, but knew that he would not. He may as well be radioactive at this point. He flipped through the magazines, surfed through the channels on the telly.

When she finally called, it was to give him the lab results: he'd been dosed with ketamine and GHB. “It was possibly whoever mixed or delivered the drinks. We're checking out the staff who worked that night.”

Ketamine explained his amnesia. When he woke yesterday morning he felt as if he'd fallen into a hole. A K-hole, they called it. He might have been sitting at the table with others, looking a bit spaced out, while being mentally absent. GHB took about an hour to take full effect, while ketamine only took minutes to work. GHB was a depressant, ketamine was an hallucinogen. Both could cause amnesia. Whoever dosed him might have given him the GHB first, and then slipped the ketamine in to speed things up. Maybe when James arrived, that was the signal.

Was James the key? Could he have imagined the man? Was it perhaps a waiter or bartender he remembered? He’d left the bar with the two women—

“What about the women?”

“Both are clear— located and questioned. They said a man met them as they were entering the bar, pointed you out to them. He said you were his boyfriend and he was arranging a surprise for you, needed them to buy you a couple drinks and walk out of the bar with him.”

“Could they describe him?”

“They were quite intoxicated when they handed you over to him. He invited them to join the two of you in his room, which they did. A small orgy ensued. They left after a couple hours. You were passed out by then. The room was registered to Ian MacLeod.”

“Oh, God,” he moaned. “He knows about the hotel job. Who is this guy?”

“We have footage of him checking in,” Anthea said. “It’s Moriarty.”

 

He received no texts or calls, slept poorly again that night. Though his own flat was as impersonal as a hotel room, he knew its smells and night sounds. This flat reeked of desperation. The fact that he was here, immobilised, unable to do anything to help himself, made him feel as taut as a bowstring. There was no target to vent against, no busywork to keep his mind off of his predicament. He couldn’t justify himself and he couldn’t complain. He was in a holding pattern, circling and circling, losing altitude and running out of fuel.

Finally he dreamt. He found himself in an underground maze of tunnels. A train was there, dark and abandoned. He walked on through the tunnel; the tracks disappeared. He now found himself at one crossroads after another, forced to choose which way to go. It grew darker and darker. He felt along the nearest wall, hoping for a light switch, even though the part of him that knew it was a dream also knew that there were no wall switches in the underground tunnels.

He heard something up ahead. Water. Something dripping into a pool of water. He dropped to his knees and crawled, suddenly aware that he could not see his feet. And the ceiling was getting lower. He crept along the cold surface. It felt like tile.

Suddenly it seemed as if the space he was in had grown, the ceiling far above him like a cavern. Still dark, but now he could see light dimly playing on the water’s surface. The room echoed. He smelled chlorine.

 _People have died._ The voice spoke close to his ear.

Another voice, savage. _That’s what people do!_

 

He woke, heart pounding, and sat straight up in the bed. He gulped in air, looking around the bedroom and letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The clock said _3:16._ He stared at the digits until the number changed to 3:17. As it did, he heard a noise in the other room.

_3:17. Coincidence?_

Room 317, where he had left a corpse in a bed, his heart stopped by a needle in his brain.

 _Idiot._ He was so tightly wound that he was imagining the clock plotting against him. _Get a grip, Watson._

But he had heard a noise. Lying perfectly still, he listened, straining his ears, filtering out sounds from outside. Nothing. He must have imagined it.

 _Panic can kill you._ The voice that floated up in his memory was Janacek’s. _Suspicion will keep you alive._

All right. He would assume he’d heard something and that whoever/whatever it was had gone still. The sound was a click, possibly the door closing. Had someone come in, or had they gone out? He would not imagine that they had left; he would have to suspect that they were still in the flat.

He took his gun out from under his pillow. It was loaded, as always. He slid the safety off.

Walking carefully across the carpet, he made no noise. He turned the door handle slowly, not allowing it to click when he had reached the end of the turn. Slowly pulling the door open with his right hand, he fixed his gaze on the widening crack, his left hand holding the gun.

No movement in the living room. The curtains were drawn closed, the flat shrouded in darkness, just a slice of light from the street lamps across the floor. He slipped through the open door, rapidly sweeping the room with his eyes and his gun, now gripped in both hands.

There were no hiding places in the room. He’d checked that thoroughly the moment he set foot in the flat. Out of habit, he’d left the door of the one closet open. It was still open, clearly empty. No one was in the flat.

The clock read 3:25. He exhaled slowly, unwilling to relax completely, unable to maintain the level of tension of the past minutes.

Someone had been here. The evidence lay on the small table where he’d eaten his dinner. An envelope.

He thought of contacting Anthea again. She would have called or texted if she’d planned to leave something. And she knew better than to sneak up on a trained assassin.

But he desperately needed information. Someone was trying to contact him. Maybe they wanted to be anonymous, but the envelope might just provide some answers. If he called Anthea, she would come and take it away, and share nothing. He was out of the information circuit now, and could not expect to solve the mystery of the other night. This envelope might contain his only chance to learn what it was about— before Janacek decided to send him away. He’d probably have him dropped in the wilds of Canada or somewhere equally remote, he thought. Maybe Greenland. Or he’d simply have him eliminated. Janacek was not a sentimental man. _Nothing personal._

He lifted the envelope by a corner. From the weight, it contained nothing bulky, probably just paper. He went back into the bedroom, opened his bag, and pulled a pair of latex gloves on. Back at the table, he tested the flap. It was glued in one small spot, which he was easily able to pry open without tearing anything. He tilted the envelope and shook it gently. The contents landed on the table.

Photographs.

Handling the first one by the edges, he turned it over and saw himself, sitting in the bar at the Lennox Hotel. He was alone in this picture, looking at his mobile. _Before all the fun began._

There was nothing written on either side of the picture.

He carefully turned over the second photo and felt his heart sink.

It was Mary. She was standing by a Range Rover, herding kids into the back seat. Her children, a boy and a girl. He could see another, he thought, already in the front seat. She’d picked up the older boy first, and then the younger two. He didn’t know their names or ages; he’d made a point of not knowing. She rarely mentioned them or her husband, understanding that he didn’t want that kind of familiarity, that it would eventually end what they had. Nevertheless, he knew that these children were her reason for staying married. They were everything to her.

On his mobile, he opened his email, was about to press the _new_ button, when he noticed he had a message waiting.

_Must see you. Something has happened. Meet me at the Montague tomorrow morning at 10. Mary._

 

There was enough time for him to think carefully about his course of action. He could not ignore Mary’s request; he owed her that, at least. But he could not entirely trust her, not now. _Something has happened._ A trap? Or had she received the photos as well?

The hotel was close to his flat, about a half hour’s walk from where he was staying now. Since he’d never given her his address, it might be a random choice. Something, however, told him it was no coincidence. Nevertheless, he would come.

His plan was to leave the safe flat at before nine, stop at a shop and get a nondescript hoodie. He had enough cash for that, at least. Then he would arrive at the hotel, meet Mary, evaluate her information, and head back to the safe flat. There were a few things at his own flat that he wished he had, but it was foolish to risk going back.

He wasn’t sure if he could leave the flat without Anthea knowing. It was a risk, but he’d lived the last five years as an agent free to make independent decisions. He’d been trained to evaluate every situation and go to ground, if necessary, even to go rogue if the mission required it. The envelope with the pictures changed the plan, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want to go against Anthea’s orders to stay put, but he felt like a sitting duck. Maybe she’d been compromised as well.

He wasn’t sure of the protocol in that case. His own orders were to call the number and await instructions. If his contact were compromised, though, how would he know? Obviously, an agent chilling out in a safe flat became a lesser priority if things higher up had become vulnerable. And he could not let Jan fall into danger, not if he could help it.

He thought of calling the number again, but decided to wait. If he was to have a chance of solving this — all of this — he needed information. Ever since the last job, the world had inexplicably turned on its head. Everything he’d known before was changed. He could no longer trust what he thought he knew. He wasn’t sure who or what he could trust.

He made tea and ate some cereal with milk. He waited.

At eight forty-five, he was dressed and packed. The possibility that he might not be able to return here meant that he had to take his bag. Not a bad thing, he decided. He put on a dark blue knitted watch hat, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

His first stop was a cheap clothing store where he purchased a dark grey hoodie. Next, he stopped at a convenience store, put on his hoodie in the loo, carefully folded his jacket and fit it inside his bag. He bought a cup of coffee and left.

At nine thirty-five he stood across the street from the hotel. For twenty minutes he walked around the block, keeping his eyes open for anyone who might be watching. When he was certain he wasn’t being spied on, he approached the hotel entrance and went through the revolving door. It was nine fifty-five.

It was an old hotel with a spacious, wood-panelled lobby and Art Deco furnishings. Walking with purpose, he went to the desk. “Brooks,” he said. “Has my wife has checked in yet?”

“Mr Brooks?” The clerk looked at him briefly, his brow creasing a bit. Watson was aware that he looked somewhat disreputable with his scruffy beard and a cap pulled down to his eyebrows, not to mention the hoodie.

He smiled at the clerk. “They lost my bags,” he said, shrugging. “Been stuck in Stockholm for two days, at the airport, waiting for them to turn up.” He gave a chagrined look. _What can you do?_

“Sorry to hear that,” the man replied, handing him a key card. “Mrs Brooks has already checked in. Room 831.

As he headed to the lift, he continued to scrutinise his surroundings. At the same time as he was noticing every person in the lobby and cafe, he was wondering how to talk with Mary about the necessary thing. He wasn’t good at conversations like this. At uni, he’d acquired a reputation as a heart-breaker because of his readiness to end any relationship that threatened to become serious. Not entirely deserved, he thought. He’d never led any of those women to believe he wanted anything besides sex. The men had understood, and they always parted on good terms without much conversation. But the fact remained: talking about feelings was not his domain.

The best course of action might be treating it like a job. Fake conversation didn’t present the difficulties that feelings caused. He was good at talking to people, persuading them to believe things, to confess things, and to trust him.

He stepped onto the lift and pushed _eight._

But Mary wasn’t like the people he coerced for a living. The first time they met for sex, she’d said, “You’re a charmer, James. Just don’t think you’re fooling me. I don’t need to know your name or how many wives and children you have. I don’t need to see your CV. Don’t tell me anything about yourself, but don’t lie to me, either.”

He hadn’t lied to her; instead, he’d told her nothing. Lying to her, however, was the very thing he would have to do now, if he was to keep them both out of danger. If he said they could not meet again, she would accept it. But she might not be safe. Someone had seen her, known her connection to him, photographed her. If that someone should get closer to her, ask her questions, she should be prepared.

Debating with himself, he arrived at the door of the room. He knocked lightly and inserted his card.

As soon as the door was open, he knew something was very wrong. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. The telly was tuned to the weather channel, the sound muted. The blower clicked on and he could smell it.

Other than the shape in the bed and himself, there was no one in the room. He felt his gun tucked into his back waistband, but did not draw it. He approached the bed.

Strangulation, he guessed as he lifted the covers. It was terrible seeing her like this, her face dark, her eyes wide open, bulging. Heart pounding, he closed his eyes for a moment and willed himself to be the professional.

In his bag he found a pair of latex gloves and put them on. It felt callous to treat his lover like a crime scene, but whatever had happened demanded answers, not emotion. His sorrow could do nothing for Mary now. And he could not get answers if he was arrested for her murder. Clearly, he was being set up for just that.

Reminding himself to wipe the doorknob before he left, he pulled down the duvet and the sheets and examined her body. Her body was cool. And naked. Her clothing lay on the floor. Sexually assaulted, he determined, but other than the cord around her neck, no sign of bindings, no cuts or bruises.

 _You don’t play rough, do you?_ He remembered her asking that once. _You’re a cuddler._ He guessed that he hadn’t been her only lover. Perhaps she was seeing other men besides him, each of them assigned their own appointed day. James was Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday or Thursday had been Michael, or Tim, or Steven. Another guy with a fake name and a penchant for horny housewives.

He’d suspected, but hadn’t pried. But this wasn’t a sex game gone wrong. She’d set this meeting up to talk with him. Punctual, always, but not generally early.

She’d been dead for a couple hours, he thought. _Livor mortis_ was visible, but no _rigor_ yet. Her email had been sent at around 3:15. Had she been here when she emailed him? Had she been abducted and brought here? Was the email a ploy to lure him here? Had she even sent the email? Someone else could have used her phone. He’d have to see the security footage to know when she arrived, to see who else was here.

Though he hadn’t noticed her email until later, it did not escape him that it had been sent at around the time someone was leaving pictures in his safe flat.

He quickly checked the loo and the closet. She’d brought a small bag containing a change of clothing and some makeup. The mobile was missing.

Sirens in the street below. Whoever had been watching for him to check in had called the police. He was done.

Lucky for him ( _for the first time in this new, fucked-up world_ ), there was a balcony. Happy to avoid the security cameras, he made his escape to the roof by latching onto the balcony just above him, pulling himself up, and then climbing onto the next balcony. His shoulder was in agony by the time he reached the roof, four stories above. Someone, probably an employee who needed frequent smoke breaks, had propped the stairs open. He ran down the stairs, came out at street level in the alley next to the hotel. For a moment, he paused, regaining his breath.

He walked around the corner to Montague Street just in time to collide with Sherlock Holmes. His instinct to flee interrupted, he simply stared dumbly.

Danger was screaming in his ears, but his eyes took in the man he’d almost knocked down. Both of them were breathing hard, pulses pounding. _Danger— danger—_

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock frowned at him and spoke in a low voice. “Quickly— do you know how to pick a lock?”

For a moment, he could not speak. He nodded.

“7 Montague Street. Upstairs flat,” he said.

He gaped for a moment as Sherlock strode down the sidewalk and into the front door of the hotel. Then he turned and walked quickly in the opposite direction, towards Montague Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The White Bear Problem / Ironic Rebound: refers to the psychological process whereby deliberate attempts to suppress certain thoughts make them more likely to surface.


	12. Mrs Brooks

Sherlock was on his way out of the flat when he received the text from Lestrade.

_Murder in your neighbourhood. Montague Hotel._

The sirens were approaching when he swooped around the corner and nearly collided with Ian MacLeod. _The universe is definitely trying to bring us together,_ he thought.

Their eyes met, longer than a flicker of recognition. He saw terror in MacLeod’s eyes and knew that whatever was waiting in a hotel room upstairs had to do with him. And, without thinking about it, he knew that he would protect him, whatever he’d done.

“7 Montague Street. Upstairs flat,” he said.

He headed into the hotel without waiting for confirmation. When he turned at the door and looked back, he saw MacLeod walking briskly away.

Cruisers pulled up in front of the hotel. Lestrade climbed out of the third car. “Good,” he said. “Hoped you’d be close by.”

A hotel employee had called it in. Lestrade got a key card from the desk, told Sally to talk to them, find the person who’d called to report it. Anderson followed Lestrade and Holmes up to the eighth floor.

The body lay in the bed, obviously a victim of strangulation. Even without the red line of the ligature, the rash-like petechiae, the swollen lips and tongue, the scratch marks where she’d clawed at her throat all told the story. Snapping on latex gloves, he observed that the woman was in her late forties, blond, blue-eyed, naked. Her stylish clothes lay on the floor. Dead about two to three hours, he estimated. Sexually assaulted, then strangled. The autopsy would verify the order of events, perhaps.

Donovan entered the room. “Gave her name as Mrs Brooks,” she said. “Checked in at eight o’clock this morning, said her husband would arrive in a couple of hours. She was rude, the clerk said. If that means anything.”

“Did the husband turn up?”

She nodded. “Just before ten. Looked disreputable, he said. A bit nervous. Wore a knit watch hat and a grey hoodie. Claimed his luggage was lost.”

“Security footage?”

“Checking now,” she said and left.

 _Not his MO_ , Sherlock thought. He hadn’t killed her, but he’d certainly been in the room, found her body, and fled. When they’d collided, he’d looked almost unhinged. He had found her, but hadn’t expected her to be dead. They’d had a liaison scheduled, he guessed. Instead—

“Anything?” Lestrade asked. He and Anderson were waiting to do their own inspection. Anderson looked almost bored, he thought. Lestrade was wary.

“She was expecting someone. But someone else showed up.”

“The bloke in the wooly hat,” said Lestrade. “He showed up instead.”

“No, he was the one whom she expected to meet,” Sherlock replied. “The woman was killed at least two hours ago. Whether the nervous fellow in the wooly hat was her husband or not remains to be seen, but he couldn’t have killed her. The timing is all wrong. Perhaps the security camera will show us who showed up before he did.” He nodded at her bag. “Let’s see who she is.”

“Mary Morstan,” said Lestrade, looking at her driving license. “Forty-eight years old. About sixty pounds cash in the purse. Cards seem to be in their slots. No mobile, though.” He handed the bag to a tech. “Dust it for fingerprints. Are you done with the body?”

Sherlock nodded. “Obviously strangled. Probably sexually assaulted before that happened.” He pointed to red marks around the mouth. “He gagged her to keep her quiet, took it off after she was dead.”

Lestrade motioned to Anderson. “Go ahead.”

Donovan reentered the room. “We’ve got lobby footage of Mr Brooks entering, but nothing of his departure.”

Sherlock stepped out onto the balcony and looked up the side of the building. “He could have climbed to the roof, I suppose.”

Lestrade, standing beside him, peered up and frowned. “That would have taken some nerve. He’d have to’ve been part lemur.”

“She was assaulted,” Anderson confirmed. “There are abrasions. Looks like he didn’t use a condom, either. Semen present.”

Lestrade nodded. “Good. Maybe we can match his DNA to someone in our database.”

“What about the husband?” asked Donovan. “Why would he run away if he found his wife had been killed?”

“Nervous wooly hat-man is not the husband,” said Sherlock. “Clearly it was an assignation.”

“A what?” Donovan frowned at him. “Just call it what it is. An affair, maybe? A bit on the side?”

“Mr Brooks, if I may call him that, obviously didn’t expect to find his lover dead. He escaped via the balcony to avoid being apprehended,” said Sherlock. “I’m guessing there is an actual husband, one who doesn’t suspect his wife has been unfaithful to him. The murderer would have been on the scene a couple hours ago. Anything on camera?”

Lestrade turned to Donovan. “Let’s take a look at what the eighth floor cameras saw. Then you can figure out who we need to contact.”

Anderson stayed to finish the examination and secure evidence. Sherlock, Donovan, and Lestrade went down to the security office on the ground floor and spoke to the Yard’s technology expert, who was looking at all the camera footage.

He showed them the tape of the man in the watch hat.

“That’s… that’s the hotel bloke,” Lestrade said. “The other hotel. The assassin. Ian MacLeod.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. “And you’re not allowed to pursue that investigation.”

Lestrade gave him an incredulous look. “And you’re accepting that? Aren’t you the one who always wants closure on every case, can’t keep your fingers off a clue? He’s an assassin, for Christ’s sake!”

“Assassin, not rapist,” said Sherlock. “He’s a dead end. Obviously he didn’t kill her, and any investigation of his involvement will end in obfuscation. We’re not getting any closer to that man, so we need to focus our energies on the actual killer. The camera must show someone else entering the room.”

“What did your brother say about MacLeod?” asked Lestrade. “He shut down the investigation, so I know you asked.”

Sherlock sighed. “You won’t learn anything by pursuing MacLeod, aka Mr Brooks. He works for the government.”

“Then what’s he doing here, in a hotel room with a dead woman? Honing his skills?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He didn’t do it. Wrong time, not his MO, no reason for MI6 to target a suburban mother of three stepping out on her husband. It was an appointment to have sex.”

“Okay, but he might know something,” protested Lestrade. “This investigation is open, and we should interview him. Maybe she’s— I don’t know, an agent working for another government. Suburban mother might be a great cover for that sort of work. Or maybe he’s the foreign operative.”

“Even if either of those ridiculous scenarios were true,” Sherlock said with as much patience as he could manage, “I’m trying to save you the trouble of running up against MI6. There are other angles to pursue here.”

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. What does the eighth floor camera show?”

“A few regular guests, but no one entering the room until Mrs Brooks arrived at eight,” Donovan said. “She entered the lobby at a few minutes before eight, registered, got her key, and went right up. The room had already been paid for the previous evening, using her credit card. The murderer must have been waiting for her. We’ve looked at footage from the previous day in case the murderer was already here. No one else checked into that room from six the previous evening until she arrived at eight the next morning. And during the time period between seven-thirty and eight, no one else appeared in the hallway.”

Sherlock made an impatient sound. “That’s ridiculous. Check the cameras. Between seven-thirty and eight, the hallway should have been full of people. During the week, most guests would be business people, who would be heading out for morning appointments during that time period.”

“Maybe he came in via the balcony as well,” Donovan said. “He could have had the room directly above or below. And what about our boy, the wooly-hat bloke? He arrived just before ten, you said. No footage of him leaving.”

“Do keep up, Donovan,” he said. “Obviously, he climbed.”

“We should check the roof,” she said to Lestrade. “I’l get on it.”

The DI’s mobile buzzed. “Lestrade,” he said. “Right. Has anyone broken the news to him? Okay, we’ll go straight there.” He turned to Sherlock and Donovan. “They’ve located the husband.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m coming with you.”

“Only if you can keep your mouth shut,” replied the DI. “If you upset the family, we’re not getting any answers. Let me handle it.”

 

David Morstan turned out to be a government employee working for the Home Office. An officer was already there when the arrived, and had clearly shared the news. He appeared to be taking it with dignified reserve, Sherlock noted. Blinking reddened eyes rapidly, no trembling lips. Rather tall and stooped, he was vague about his duties, but gave them the name of his superior if they needed that information, the implication being that the Met would not get that information.

“I know your brother,” he said when Sherlock introduced himself. Since Mycroft didn't generally bother with goldfish who worked in other departments, he surmised that David Morstan’s job at the Home Office was more than merely bureaucratic.

“Who could have done this?” Morstan asked. “What have you discovered?”

Lestrade nodded. “I understand that it’s difficult to take it all in, but rest assured, our investigation will be thorough. We just need to ask you a few questions, if you’re up to it.”

“Of course. What do you need to know?”

“What time did your wife leave this morning?”

“I had an early appointment, so I can’t be exact. I left at a quarter of seven. Normally, she takes the children to school, dropping them off by eight. Sometimes she trades the duty with a neighbour who has children at the same schools. She didn’t mention anything today, but we barely spoke before I had to leave.” His expression was briefly anguished, but then became stoic once more.

Lestrade nodded. “Does she normally carry her mobile? We didn’t find it in the room with her things.”

“Always. She uses it constantly — the children, the charity work, social contacts.”

“Do you know all of her friends?” Sherlock asked. _Need names, someone to interview._

Morstan frowned. “Of course not. In some respects, we lead very separate lives, but there was no trouble of _that_ sort in our marriage.”

“Were you aware that your wife was having an affair?” Sherlock asked.

Morstan glared at him for a moment. Sherlock could see Lestrade doing a mental facepalm. Had he not known the man for several years, he might have missed it. Lestrade had warned him about being insensitive before, but for Sherlock, it was all about getting information in the most efficient manner possible. “You understand, Mr Morstan, that we are determined to find who killed your wife. I’m sorry to be blunt, but she _was_ in fact having an affair. Possibly for months. Were you not aware?”

The husband bit his lip and took a deep breath. “Until today, no.”

“We need to see her email,” Sherlock said. “I suspect that she contacted her lover early this morning, saying they had to meet. Or he contacted her, with a similar message. Had anything happened that might have made it urgent that she see him?”

“No,” he said tightly. “Nothing. She was as usual last night. Helping the children with their homework, discussing holiday plans with me.”

“So, neither of you had contemplated divorce?”

“Sherlock—” said Lestrade softly. “Have a care.”

“No talk of divorce,” Morstan quietly confirmed.

“But you had not been intimate in… months?”

The man looked like he was contemplating different ways to kill Sherlock. “And why would you think that?”

“It’s clear that this was not a new affair. Are you asserting that your love life was… just fine?”

“My wife…” the man growled. “She perhaps wanted more… than I was able to give her.” He frowned severely. “I occupy a high-stress position. Evening meetings are usual, and she takes the responsibility for caring for our children. I love… loved her. I cannot deny, however, the possibility that she… sought more.” Even Sherlock could see how much it cost the man to admit that his wife was not satisfied with their sex life. “We had planned a holiday. Were going to leave the children with my sister and her husband for a week.”

“It does not imply inadequacy on your part,” Sherlock said. “That she sought another partner may be more a reflection of her personality. Or her hormone level.” This was meant to reassure the man. It seemed to have the opposite effect.

“What are you saying?” The man’s face reddened. “That my wife is a… nympho?”

“I don’t believe that term is preferred,” Sherlock replied. “Hypersexual is, I think, what we might call her. Many older women become hypersexual—” Obviously his explanation was not making things better. Lestrade, usually not a blusher, had turned magenta.

“She’s nearly fifty,” her husband said. “Was. I mean, she was almost in menopause. That’s why we stopped…” He sighed. “She said… she didn’t…”

Sherlock tried again “Do you know what your wife was doing with her days while you were occupied in your high-stress position?”

“I assumed that she was volunteering at school, at the Veteran’s Agency, at the hospital. As always. Shopping, meeting girlfriends for lunch…”

Lestrade handed him a picture of MacLeod, a freeze-frame taken from the footage in the Case of the Accurate Acupuncturist. That was what Sherlock was calling it now that two cases involved people killed in hotels. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the title, but it was, at least, alliterative. This new murder he called the Case of the Horny Housewife. Well, to himself, at least.

He saw Lestrade give him a narrow look, as if he knew Sherlock was assigning humorous titles to all of his cases. He knew that look. _Not good, Sherlock._

“Where could she have met this man _?_ ” Lestrade asked. “If we can find him, he might tell us something.”

“How should I know?” the husband responded. “I know nothing about him. Perhaps you can fill me in on him, and I can tell you how they might have met.”

“Perhaps we can, if you can access her email.”

Lestrade opened his mouth. Sherlock intervened. “Their relationship was likely nothing romantic. They might have merely been acquaintances who decided to have sex.”

Morstan did not look relieved. “And who killed her? Did he do it?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “The murder took place a couple hours before he appeared on the scene. The murderer apparently knew about her appointment with this man, anticipated it by checking in before your wife. He most likely ambushed her. This man showed up two hours later.”

“Find him,” Morstan said in a tight voice. “I would like to meet him myself.”

“We will,” said Lestrade. “Will you permit us to access her email?”

The husband looked uncertain.

“We can get a warrant, but it would be easier if you give us access.”

Morstan nodded. “All right. It would seem that there is no point in hiding anything from you, Mr Holmes. If I don’t give you access, I’m sure your brother will be able to get the information. I have nothing to hide. Let’s look at her laptop.”

He opened her account on the first try. “She didn’t change her password very often,” he said, smiling ruefully. “That alone should tell you how unlikely it was that she was having an affair. She used our anniversary: 6June1992.”

Sherlock did an internal eye-roll. _No, it only shows that she was so deceptive that she wasn’t worried you’d catch on. Probably had many affairs over many years…_

The most recent sent message was from 3:16 am: _Must see you. Something has happened. Meet me at the Montague tomorrow morning at 10._

It was sent to [rjsmith1881@email.com](mailto:rjsmith1881@email.com)[. ](mailto:james1881@email.com)There was no reply to that message or any of the previous messages sent to that address. All her messages were simply arranging meetings at hotels. There were more than a dozen, going back months. She used no salutations that gave any clues to his first name.

“We’ll check with the email provider, see if we can trace it to an IP address,” Lestrade said.

“The hard drive,” added Sherlock. “May we have it?”

Morstan nodded in resignation and handed over the laptop. “Take it.”

There were sounds from the front of the house. The front door opened, and they heard children’s voices, arguing. _No, it’s my turn… It was your turn last time… I’m hungry…_

“Is there anything else?” Morstan said, looking stricken. “I need to see to my children.”

Lestrade stood. “We will let you know as soon as we have something.”

 

“Why are you protecting this man?” asked Lestrade as they returned to Scotland Yard. “What did your brother say?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “Mycroft asked me not to get involved with the Accurate Acupuncturist case, and I haven’t.”

“Your acupuncturist has popped up in the middle of a murder investigation,” returned Lestrade. “Are you seriously suggesting that he has nothing to do with this?”

“There is no evidence that he has committed murder.”

“But he was involved with the wife. He must know something!”

“You won’t find him,” Sherlock said. “Waste of time. And I’m sure the email account can’t be traced. A man like Ian MacLeod would not have an insecure email.”

“But her email isn’t. We’ll get what we can. What’s on the laptop?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The woman is the key. Why was she killed?”

“The husband’s at the Home Office. That might put him in contact with some shady business. Someone sending him a warning.”

“I suspect that the warning was for Ian MacLeod,” Sherlock muttered.

“But since we’re not getting involved,” Lestrade said, “we’ll never know.”

“I can get involved,” Sherlock replied. “You can’t.”

The DI raised his hands in annoyance. “Don’t tell me. Whatever you’re planning to do, I don’t want to know.”

 

He spent several hours looking through the content of Mary Morstan’s email. As he suspected, the woman had been carrying on affairs with several men. All the messages were curt, business like confirmations of appointments. No endearments, no sexual implications. A sad kind of existence, he reflected, a tidy, orderly, adulterous calendar of assignations. He thought about Ian MacLeod, aka John Watson, and what his life might be like. _What does an assassin do in his spare time? What kind of books does he read? Does he have drinking buddies, pub nights?_ By now, he should have found where the man lived, broken into his flat, hacked into his email. By now he should have known what the man ate for breakfast, what he dreamed about. But Ian MacLeod’s entire life appeared to be unhackable.

It was after eight, growing dark when he returned to his flat. The sky had clouded over and there was a heaviness in the air that portended a storm. Standing inside the front door, he listened. Thunder rumbled distantly. The floor above him did not creak. He did not smell anything other than laundry soap, the faint whisper of cigarette smoke, and traces of his own Indian carryout from the previous evening.

He walked the steps slowly, though, still listening.

He wasn’t sure whether MacLeod had come to the flat. Giving him the address was an impulse; he hadn’t thought about it. He wasn’t sure what emotion was on the man’s face at that accidental meeting. Fear, panic, maybe. But he was certain, when he saw the dead woman, that MacLeod hadn’t murdered her. He was a trained assassin with years of experience. He would not be nervous or distraught after a job. Stressed, perhaps, but the look on his face— horror, disbelief— did not reflect any emotion that a professional killer would likely experience. Unless something completely unexpected had happened.

He paused at the door. No sounds within the flat. His key made barely a click as he slid it into the keyhole and turned it. The door’s hinges, well-oiled, made no sound as he slowly let it fall open.

The flat was dark and quiet. Silently closing the door behind him, he waited for his eyes to adjust. No figure sitting in the chair before the fireplace, no signs of chaos. He crept inside and walked across the carpet, standing where he could see into the kitchen and the sitting room. No evidence of MacLeod. He could see that the door of his bedroom was ajar. He always left it closed when he went out.

He pushed the door slightly; it slowly opened, revealing a figure lying across the bed. He flicked on the lights.

Before he could take his hand from the switch, the person in the bed had leaped up and tackled him. A gun to his temple. He looked into the wild eyes of Ian MacLeod.

In retrospect, surprising a trained assassin was probably not the best idea.

“Breathe,” Sherlock said. “And don’t shoot me.”

“Oh, God,” MacLeod said, lowering the gun. “Fuck. I almost killed you.” He slumped over, breathing hard.

Recalling Mycroft’s warning about the man, Sherlock eyed the gun with respect. A man who sleeps armed is not a man to startle, or argue with. “I don’t think weapons will be necessary,” he said lightly. “Perhaps you could, erm…”

Without a word, MacLeod put the safety on and slipped the gun back into its holster.


	13. Must Be the Truth

Not for the first time in the last two days, Watson wondered what he was doing. It wouldn’t be the last time, either, he decided. Everything he’d known, all the calm order of his life, had been tipped out of kilter. He felt as if the edges of two huge tectonic realities were rubbing against one another. Until it finally resolved, his life teetered on the edge of some invisible abyss. He would have to act solely on instinct, remembering that Janacek, the one man he had trusted, had also trusted his hunches.

He had no hunches about Sherlock Holmes, he realised as he knelt and easily picked the lock of the second floor flat at 7 Montague Street. Letting himself into the flat, he scanned it as he would any unfamiliar place. His memory of the man, known to him for such a short time, did not remove his natural caution. He might have trusted Holmes once, when they were unhappy children surrounded by bullies, but trusting him now could be risky. The man was clever, focused, uncannily observant, and not afraid to announce his deductions. He had figured out the hotel murder, and now seemed to understand that what had happened to Mary involved him. He worked with the police, though he was not part of their organisation, and could easily turn Watson over to the Met. It would increase his stature with the police and the public.

Janacek would not let that happen, he knew. But he was under cover now, trying to get inside Moriarty’s trafficking operation, and not aware of what had happened to his partner. Anthea, perhaps, would intervene, but Watson wasn’t sure where he stood with her any longer. He’d ignored her directive to stay put in the safe flat, gone out to meet Mary, making himself visible to anyone with eyes, and become embroiled in her murder. If he were seen by the police, he could be arrested. If he were found by the people behind her murder, he might be killed.

 _Why was she killed?_ It was a message to him, he guessed. _We see what you’re doing. We know who you are._ These people didn’t give a fuck about Mary— her murder was just the medium for the message. It was his fault that she was dead. He was the one they sought.

God, he’d made so many mistakes. But if they’d wanted to kill him, he knew that he would already be dead. They wanted him, but not dead. Information, perhaps, or cooperation. That was troubling.

When he’d signed on, he knew that acting independently was sometimes necessary; he also understood that if it went badly, he could be cut loose, eliminated, rather than endanger the mission. He’d certainly done that. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock Holmes might have saved his life. If Anthea were half as competent and ruthless as Watson knew her to be, she would already have put someone on his tail, prepared to kill him on her order. That was just part of the job: _if you fuck up, you die_.

After their first encounter in Janacek’s garden, he'd learned what he could about Sherlock Holmes. The man had a website, _The Science of Deduction_ , where he billed himself as a _consulting detective, the only one in the world_. Apparently he worked with the police, but also took private cases. From what Watson could tell, his career was beginning to take off, but given the state of his living quarters, he was not making much money yet.

The flat was small, cluttered, grimy. Every surface was filled with something, most of it odd or disgusting. The man was experimenting on thumbs, it seemed; he found several floating in a flask of some clear liquid. A microscope was set up on the small kitchen table, slides with various smears scattered around it. There was something in the fridge that looked like an entire liver, but not the kind you buy from the butcher. He decided against making tea. No telling what was in the kettle.

There were but four rooms, all of them small. A kitchen, a sitting area (barely a room), a bedroom, and a bath. An American would call it an _efficiency_ , but there was nothing efficient about this mess. No obvious evidence of drug use, but the back of his neck prickled, telling him that the owner of this flat had an interest in chemistry that extended beyond what he could see through the lens of his microscope.

 _Does the man subsist on tea and toast?_ The collection of cups and plates in the sink and on the surfaces of the sitting area seemed to indicate so. Books were spilling out of a rickety case and piled on the floor around the chair. Medical texts, physiology and psychology, criminology, chemistry, geology. Individual titles caught his eye: _A History of the Great Houses of England, Rail Transport in Great Britain, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes, Paleolithic Britain, Atlas of Human Anatomy, Oxford Dictionary of American English._ What every consulting detective is reading these days, he guessed.

He saw the violin then, and for a moment his heart stopped, hearing an echo of the notes that hung in the air at the Christmas concert that year, a few days after he arrived at the school. How could no one hear what he’d heard in that small auditorium, the angst and passion in those notes?

He was suddenly tired, and looked around for a place to sit. The chair, piled as it was with books and plates, would not do. Everything was chaos in here. A disciplined sleeper, Watson was particular about where he allowed himself the indulgence of relaxing. He wondered about the bedroom, whether it would be even more disgusting. With no other choice in view, he opened the door.

It was as if he were looking into the bedroom of a different man. The slob who occupied the kitchen and sitting areas could not possibly sleep here. The bed was neatly made, the drawers in the chest shut, the floor free of clothing and shoes. He walked inside. The space was tight, but it smelled cleaner than the other rooms. He pulled a drawer open and saw carefully folded socks lying in chromatic order, no mateless items crushed around the sides (as he admittedly did with his orphans), no wild tangle of blue and brown and black. Curious, he pulled open another and saw neatly folded vests and pants. The cupboard showed him a selection of suit jackets and trousers, mostly dark, and dress shirts, again arranged by colour and pattern, all carefully spaced so as not to wrinkle.

Clearly the man slept here and nothing else. He kept his work and his rest separate in this crowded flat, as much as possible.

The loo was also uncluttered. The man liked his poncy products, but all were lined up against one end of the bath. Watson looked into the mirror, not liking the tired face that stared back at him. Well, he’d hardly slept for two days, and sleep had always been one of his weaknesses. He could go without food or washing or sex, had no addictions that required attention, but he did like his seven hours of undisturbed slumber. He rinsed his face and patted it dry with what smelled like a clean towel.

He lay down on the perfectly made bed, thinking. He remembered the boy he’d been, his first day in that school, the loneliness he’d felt— and seen mirrored in Sherlock’s face. They ought to have been friends, but both were locked into their own space, unable to breach the distance between them. He let himself wander into the fantasy he’d created, the two of them, children, living in a huge house somewhere in the country, playing with dogs and riding horses, sleeping in a warm bed. Though that house existed only in his imagination, it was the safest place he’d ever experienced. During his time in Afghanistan, he’d sometimes taken cover there, hiding in a cupboard or under a bed to wait out the explosions— always with Sherlock. It was a haven in his mind, a safe place where he could retreat.

In the weeks that followed his departure from the school, his father had found him. Taking him from the foster family with whom he’d been placed, he brought him back to his sister. _We’re family_ , he’d said. _No snitches._ They’d had to move quite often, always into a service flat or a bed sit. His work was no longer music; his children were his only assets. Harry turned fourteen, still young and undeveloped enough to make money off of men who preferred girls. If John looked askance at his father, he would growl, _I can sell your pretty arse, too, if you don’t heed me._ He heeded, and Hamish taught him how to break into houses, crack a safe, shimmy down a trellis. He was small, and could wriggle through tight spots. If he were caught, Da explained, he’d be sent to another school, but only until he turned eighteen. In a school like that one, not a _stinking rich school_ like the last one they sent him to, he could learn all sort of tricks of the trade. _That’s how I educated myself,_ he said, _and I got_ _by. Until that bitch talked me into going straight and burdened me with two brats_.

He’d never learned what happened to his mother, but supposed she was in a much better place than her children.

 _Keep your mouth shut_ , Harry said. _He won’t live forever._ But it seemed like forever, the unending flow of men to their flat, the long nights lying beside her as she wept silently. Harry would never have left, he knew, if he hadn’t told her to. He’d promised her that he would get Da back into the music business, get him legal once more, and maybe someday they’d meet again.

Somehow, he had lived, and so had she. It was odd how he could occupy this new axis and have no memories of so many things that had happened here. It might be the Q-axis, But he was still XY John Watson. Or Ian MacLeod. Or whoever he would become now.

His mind drifted back to that big house, the paddock of horses. He could hear waves crashing on the shore below.

 

Awake, he didn’t move. Didn’t remember where he was. Unfamiliar smells. Sounds from another room. A door closing, quiet footsteps. A doorknob turning, a sliver of light across the bed (whose bed?). For a moment, he imagined himself in the safe flat. Someone had entered, left photos for him to find. He’d been at a bar, been drugged—

He didn’t think. He just moved. The other, not anticipating his state of alertness, had misjudged. His mistake meant that Watson would have to kill him.

Panting shallowly, he held his gun rock-steady, aimed at the man he was about to shoot between the eyes.

“Breathe,” the man said quietly. “And do not shoot me.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered, slumping over and gasping for air. He did not let go of his gun. _Sherlock Holmes. I’m in his flat, in his bed…_ “Fuck. I almost shot you.”

“I don’t think weapons will be necessary,” the other said in a surprisingly calm voice. “Perhaps you could, erm…”

He slid his gun into its holster.

 

Sherlock tasked him with making tea, while he began tidying up the sitting area, rearranging the piles of clutter into taller towers of the same. He shoved a few books back into the bookcase, folded up the laptop that looked as if it was about to take a suicidal dive from the top of a pile of newspapers, and located a packet of biscuits that were not part of some experiment.

“Anything hazardous in the kettle?” he called.

He heard Sherlock chuckle. “No. The tea’s in the cupboard over the toaster. The mugs are clean.”

Waiting for the water to boil, Watson rewashed the mugs that Sherlock insisted were clean and leaned against the counter, watching as the tidying progressed. By the time the tea had steeped, a second chair had been uncovered. Sherlock took the offered mug and gestured for Watson to sit.

He took the moment to really look at Sherlock. Other than the— what, three minutes? — when they met in Janacek's garden, and the ten seconds outside the hotel earlier, he hadn't closely looked at what the boy had become.

He was tall, a good six feet, though still lanky, even skinny. The eyes were the same— opalescent, impossible to name. As a child, he’d seemed gawky, uncoordinated in a body that suddenly and recently grown. This man had no hint of awkwardness about him, though. He moved with grace and confidence. _He’s beautiful_ , Watson thought, and wished that the bullied boy might have seen what he would one day become.

He glanced at Watson, giving him a quirky, almost shy smile that was immediately endearing. “Sorry about all this.” The smooth baritone sent a shiver down Watson’s spine.“I’m looking at a larger flat. Can’t afford the rent, though. Perhaps you’d be interested in a flatshare?” He gave Watson a cheeky, boyish grin.

Watson shook his head, smiling. “Think you’d enjoy living with a murderer? Sorry— silly question. Obviously a man with a skull as a companion and a human liver in his icebox wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re not a murderer.”

Watson blew on his tea and took a sip. “You sure about that?”

“I know you didn’t kill Mary Morstan.”

“That ought to be reassuring, but I’m not a complete fool. Even if you’re convinced, do I suppose anyone will listen to you? Not at all.”

“Lestrade believes me. But he still wants to talk to you.”

A flare of panic went up from his belly. “If you’ve invited me here to make some kind of confession—” He began to rise from his seat, realising how stupid he’d been. The flat was probably bugged. He was undoubtedly recording their conversation.

Sherlock motioned him to sit. “Relax. He doesn’t know you’re here. And the only one who bugs my flat is Mycroft. While he might disapprove of our meeting, he is apparently out of town at the moment.”

Relaxing marginally, Watson settled himself again. “Why am I here?”

“I’m curious.” Sherlock’s pale eyes regarded him narrowly over the top of his tea. “Who are you?”

Watson laughed. “You don’t get to ask me questions. You know I work with your brother. That ought to say it all.”

“Ian MacLeod. Why have you taken the name of an abused child as your alias?”

“Not an alias. Also not currently my legal name. You’ve obviously done some research, so you tell me who I am.”

Sherlock studied him with eyes the colour of glass. “Former military, Afghanistan or Iraq, I think. You met my brother when you enlisted and took aptitude tests to see what kind of officer you’d make. He’s always siphoning off the ones who have specific talents.”

“What talents are those?”

“Marksmanship, for one. A certain detachment, a flexible morality that can see the bigger picture. High panic threshold. Stealth, observational skills, the ability to adapt to your surroundings. You’re a chameleon, Doctor Jensen, able to be whomever the moment requires. You think on your feet, work independently when necessary, but feel loyal to the cause, even when it requires you to take a life. You are not afraid to die, but you excel at survival.”

“The qualities of any good agent, Mr Holmes,” he replied.

“Call me Sherlock, please. May I call you Ian? They are rarer qualities than you might think.” He set down the mug and leaned forward in his chair, a keen look on his face. “Tell me about John Watson.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, vibrating the windows. The air felt heavy, warning of a pending downpour. There was no flash of light; the storm was still far off.

Watson frowned. Sherlock hadn’t figured him out, then. That’s what this was about. “Why? Didn’t he turn up in your research?”

“I searched for John Watson several years ago, when I was starting as a detective. I had access to the Met’s records and was curious about a boy I’d met many years ago, in school. He’d had to leave school suddenly, after an incident, and I’d always wondered what happened to him. I imagined contacting him, now grown up, the two of us meeting for drinks somewhere. Instead, I found that he’d died— murdered quite horribly— a few months after he left school.”

“Died?” Startled, he sat up straight, splashing tea onto his hoodie.

“What I want to know is this: why did you take the name of a dead boy?”

“No, I didn’t— I’m not— Look at me, Sherlock! Do I look dead?”

“You said Ian MacLeod is not an alias. Therefore, it must have been your birth name. But John Watson died. I saw the crime scene photos, the autopsy results. I saw his grave. You adopted his name. I want to know why.” There was tension in his voice now, and possibly anger.

“Oh, God!” Watson sagged back in his chair. He heard the thunder again, closer this time.

Sherlock went on. “Of course, those records are now removed from the Met database, thanks to my brother’s influence, I suppose. But Ian MacLeod is still there, a victim of child abuse, and John Watson is the name you took as your legal name when you turned eighteen. A common name, perhaps, but an unusual choice for a boy of about the same age and physical description. Why _his_ name? Why _him?_ You must have known him.”

Watson stood suddenly. “I should go. I wouldn’t have come here, except—” He made a helpless gesture, set the tea on the counter and turned towards the door. “In a bit of a jam at the moment, and probably not thinking clearly. I’ll just leave, then.”

“No—” Sherlock was on his feet, grabbing his shoulder.

He hissed and pulled away at the sudden pain. “Fuck!”

Sherlock’s face was doing… a thing. Calculating, deducing. “You were wounded. Shot. You had a limp before, and now you don’t. This injury is obviously real. Why the limp, then? That looked genuine.”

He needed to protect himself from this man who could see inside of him. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Why did you?”

“Because I want to understand… to know that I haven’t lost my mind.” He sighed and raked his hand through his short hair. “You don’t see it, do you?” Shaking his head, he gave a short, humourless laugh. “How could you? You don’t know. You’ve been here all along, and I’ve been dead— or was, until the tunnel…”

Thunder rattled the window panes again. The echos receded. Still no lightning, no rain. In his shoulder, he could feel the atmospheric pressure dropping.

“Tunnel.” Sherlock looked at him as if he were a perplexing bit of evidence under his lens. “Explain.”

“You won’t believe me.” He sank back into the chair, suddenly too tired to keep running away, too tired to be on guard.

“You knew him. You knew John.”

He looked up, saw Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears, and understood that the memory of that day, the moment they’d stood in the office, holding hands and not speaking, had meant something to Sherlock, as it had to John Watson. He could say it now, the thing he’d never told anyone, and Sherlock would want to believe him. But how could he explain? Sherlock was a man of evidence, science, facts, logic. Anything Watson could explain to him would sound like the ravings of a maniac. _I was on the underground and the train stopped, and there was a tunnel, and I found myself here, in the Q-Axis, where things have happened that I don’t remember…_

He wanted to tell him. It was selfish, but his gut told him that nothing else he could say would be believed, either. May as well be hanged for a goat as a lamb— for a madman as for a liar.

“Miss Hayes,” he said. “I was failing maths and you were ahead. She said you should help me. A lesson on maps, understanding scale. You said we were going on a holiday to the shore, and I told you we could take a boat down the Thames.” He laughed. “I said I wanted to be a pirate. Because pirates can do whatever they like.”

He looked up into Sherlock’s face, expecting anger, maybe, or at least disbelief. To find out someone you’d thought dead for so long was actually sitting in front of you— well, it had to be baffling, if not overwhelming. He understood that feeling. He had stood where Harry’s grave ought to have been.

Sherlock’s mouth was open, moving, but no sound was coming out. His eyes, fixed on Watson, had a far-away look. “No,” he finally said, tightening his lips. “Not possible.”

Another roll of thunder. The sky cracked, and he thought he heard rain beginning to fall, as if the air had finally grown too heavy to hold any more moisture. He smelled wet pavement, wet dirt. He had a sudden, inexplicable urge to either flee into the storm— or to throw his arms around Sherlock Holmes and drag him to bed.

“I came to school a couple weeks before Christmas,” he went on. “You were playing a violin solo in the Christmas concert, _The Holly and the Ivy_. I think I fell in love with you right then and there.” He grinned, and felt tears forming in his own eyes. “I saw how the others treated you. They were cruel, for no reason. I hated it and didn't care what they thought of me. And then, that last day.”

Sherlock rose from his chair, his hands fisted, his face an unbalanced mixture of anger, perplexity, and hope. “How? How do you know this?” His entire body was shaking; tears ran down his cheeks. “He died. You cannot be him.”

The urge to run had passed. The need to touch Sherlock surged. He balled his fists, restraining himself with difficulty. “I can’t explain what you remember. I was born Ian MacLeod. They gave me a new name, John Watson, before we met, when my father threatened to find me. I didn’t die. I lived in foster homes for years, grew up, and changed my name legally. Maybe in some other reality, I died. But I’m here now.” He held out his hand. “This is real.”

Rain was coming down in sheets now, pelting against the glass. Thunder boomed again and the lights flickered. The storm was almost overhead now. Watson felt his heart pounding in his throat.

Sherlock’s face shuttered. “How can this be true? If I can’t believe my memory, my own senses, what can I believe?” He took a step away from Watson, clearly struggling for control of his emotions. “You’re skilled at assuming identities. You were abused, and you took his name because he was, too. Maybe you never knew him, but I did. You can’t just come here and tell me— You can’t pretend—” He covered his face with his hands and began to weep.

Watson stepped towards him, took him by the upper arms. The urge to touch satisfied, he felt immediately calmer. “No one saw what happened on that playground,” he went on relentlessly. “None of the teachers was watching. And while those children who were there might have repeated what _I_ said, none of them would have admitted what they did to _you_. I am your only witness, the only one who _knew_ ,” he whispered fiercely. “God, Sherlock! If only you knew how often I’ve thought of you, how many times I’ve wished we could have known one another!” He was startled to feel his eyes sting with tears. He could not remember the last time he’d cried.

Sherlock stepped away. At the loss of contact, Watson felt as if he were on the verge of flying into pieces with the next thunderclap.

“I need to understand,” Sherlock said. “This doesn’t— _you_ don’t make sense.” he began to pace. “I don’t believe in ghosts, and I’ve had hallucinations before, so that’s not it. But you know things… things only he would know. Mycroft could have erased his death, allowed you to take his identity. He can do things like that. Or knows people who can. But it is impossible that you— or anyone— could know the things he said to me, the things he did. Impossible. I never told anyone. Not even Mycroft. And you— John Watson was dead before he turned ten. _You_ cannot be _him_.”

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Watson repeated. His arms ached, his shoulder throbbed. The rain hit the house like gunfire.

“But you did. And I want to know. Why _him_? Did you know him?” He was standing close enough now that Watson could feel his breath, see a vein pulsing in his neck. He wanted to wrap Sherlock in his arms and make them both nine again. He wanted to have another chance, for them both to be standing in that office all those years ago, holding hands. He wanted to say _I love you._ He wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

He stepped towards him, took his hands, and placed them on his own chest. “This is _me_ , Sherlock. It’s not a trick. Or if it is, it’s a trick I don’t understand either. And it’s not just you. Things have changed… in ways that things shouldn’t change. Can’t change, not in the world as I know it. You’re right. This is impossible. But it’s also true. I’ve been living it for months.”

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes faraway and unfocused. “Eliminate the impossible,” he said softly. “Whatever remains, however improbable—”

“Must be the truth,” Watson finished. He waited.

“No one else could have known those things,” Sherlock said, his voice almost a whisper now. “Tell me what I said to you when we were alone in the school office that day.”

“Nothing.” He smiled. “Not a single word. Not with your lips, at least. But you wanted to say _I’m sorry._ ”

“And then?”

“I held out my hand. You took it. We just stood there, holding hands, looking at each other.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned his head on Watson’s shoulder. “I wish I had said it. I’m sorry, John. So sorry,” he whispered.

Watson’s arms went around his waist. He laid his head against Sherlock’s chest, heard the heart pounding under his ribs. At last, a flash of lightning. He looked up and saw belief on Sherlock’s face. There was nothing left to understand.

_This is all I will ever have of him. This night, this forgiveness, this understanding._

In the darkness that followed that flash, they leaned into one another. Watson put his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulled him down, and kissed him. He didn’t think about doing it, he just instinctively knew he had to, that he couldn’t wait another moment to find out what Sherlock’s lips felt like, how his mouth tasted. Always so cautious, he shrugged off his hesitation like a heavy weight and realised, as he did, that he had wanted this for years. Had he thought about it, he would not have allowed himself to do it. But now, he could not think. He felt his cock begin to stir in his pants, rising as unutterable want began flooding his body. Everything he had ever needed was right here, in this moment. He pulled Sherlock against his body.

The thunder followed the flash, a deafening boom that might have moved the ground beneath them. The tectonic plates shifted. Time flowed. The lights went out.

Neither of them moved.


	14. Not Dead

He was kissing John Watson, who was not dead. As the storm rolled over them, they stumbled into the pitch-dark bedroom, pulled off their clothes and slipped between the sheets, into each other’s arms. For several minutes they simply breathed, becoming acclimated to each other. _I must memorise this_ , he thought. _Every bit of his skin, every follicle of his hair. The way he smells, the sound of his voice next to my ear._

“I want you,” whispered John, his voice breathy and soft. “I want this.” Urgently, he pushed his body against Sherlock. What he wanted was obvious.

Sherlock felt his own member fill and swell. How many times he had thought of this, he could not say. Imagining what it would be like, _if only_ … Those had been fantasies; this was real. _Remember this. Memorise this._ A part of him wanted to take notes, file them in his Mind Palace; the other part was saying: _shut up, shut up— five minutes ago this was impossible! Then merely improbable. And now, here we are. His cock pushing against me, his breath on my skin, his hands— oh, God, his hands…_ The voice of reason faded.

Feeling as if he’d waited a lifetime to hear John’s urgent whisper, to feel his body react like this, Sherlock kissed his scar, reverently tracing the edges of the mangled flesh. “I want you.” What he meant was _I want all of you, every part. I want to know your memories, your scars, your dreams, your nightmares. I want to know what you’ll say before you say it. I want to read your hesitation in a lift of your eyebrow, your fears and your hopes in the size of your pupils and the way you stand, your secrets in the tilt of your head. I want all of you. In return, I give myself to you, every atom of who I am._ “I’m yours,” he whispered.

They stopped talking, explored one another’s bodies. Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s cock ( _thick, hard, beginning to leak_ ), moving in sync with him ( _together, together_ ), feeling the heat grow in his belly ( _don’t stop_ ).

“More.” John’s hand stilled his. “Please. I want more.”

Reluctantly, he rolled away, groping in the bedside table until he found an ancient tube of lube ( _does it expire? How can you tell if it’s gone bad?_ ). It had been ages since he’d had sex, and then, it was always about drugs. ( _Will he know? Will he ask? Will he care?)_

“Let it go,” John whispered. “It’s all fine. Just breathe. We’re fine. This… is perfect.” He ran a reassuring hand down Sherlock’s back. “Oh, God, you’re so gorgeous… I want to touch…”

His mind felt unusually clear now. No, not his mind. It was his emotions that for once seemed clear. _No words_. In the dark, he prepped himself, listening to John’s shallow breathing, until he felt ready. Then he swung himself on top of John and lowered himself slowly onto his erect prick. He briefly thought about a condom, but it was already late for that.

Lightning flashed and he could see his lover’s face for just a second, the dark eyes looking up at him, heavy-lidded, bliss and urgency mingled. No one had ever looked at him like that before— as if he were perfect, beautiful, and cherished.

“Close your eyes,” John whispered.

Since the room was pitch dark, it wasn’t as he could see anything with his eyes open, so Sherlock shut his eyes and began to rock, getting used to John’s girth. Not a small man, then. He smiled, feeling all of the strong, compact body beneath him. John thrust against him then, hitting his sweet spot, and he gasped. Hands were on his arse, responding, guiding his movement. “Together,” he whispered.

The rain was coming in waves now, surging and retreating by turns, battering the earth, sighing against the eaves. He rocked in time with the surges, feeling his urgency grow, the heat in his belly moving towards combustion. Like a star, he would go supernova, expire, and smoulder into ashes. He would fall across the sky, arcing a brief, bright exultation, and then fade into the darkness.

His eyes closed; darkness was thick around him. He looked up and, yes, there were stars above him, and entire sky full of constellations. Without warning, he found himself on a rooftop, looking down. People in the street looked up at him, pointing. Perhaps they wondered. He wondered too. There was something he was supposed to do. _Save him._ The people in the street were silent, waiting for him.

Someone held his hand. A small hand, protective.

“John,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” He stepped towards the edge.

And then he was plunging down, the earth rising up against him. He smelled rain and dust and pavement. Thunder boomed and the ground shook and he was having the strongest orgasm he could ever recall, so much pleasure that it felt like pain, as if he were hitting the ground and smashing into uncountable atoms.

“We are one.” John might have whispered these words. They lay still. The storm had passed, and only the rain was left behind, pouring over the streets and the buildings. The smell of wet earth hung in the air. John’s arms were around him, his warm body under him. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he was exactly where he belonged. _I love you…_

He slept.

 

Light was pouring in through the gap between the curtains when Sherlock woke up— alone. He knew it without even rolling over to verify it. The bed was cold.

The state of his bedding said he’d been with someone. That wasn’t like him, to pick up strangers and take them to bed. He was usually more cautious than that, now that he wasn’t taking drugs. Or maybe he’d been on drugs, though he had no recollection of having procured any. He’d been out of touch with his dealers for months now, and was getting along rather well without chemical assistance. Something must have set him off.

There had been a crime scene. A hotel room, dead woman. That he remembered with some clarity. Lestrade had texted, summoning him to the Montague. And he’d run smack into Ian MacLeod coming around the corner. He’d given him his address.

He’d almost forgotten about MacLeod when he returned to his flat, and wasn’t sure the man would have accepted his offer of a safe spot to stay out of sight for a while. Very foolish, he realised when it was almost too late, to have neglected to make plenty of noise on entering.

He remembered the storm, the deafening thunder that produced no light until it was passing overhead. They had talked. _John Watson, back from the dead, telling him things no living person would know, taking him to bed…_

He sat up and looked around the room as if he’d expected to be somewhere else. On a roof, perhaps—

No, he was in his flat, in his own bed, naked. The digital clock was blinking, asking to be reset. His clothes had been flung in every direction, hanging from the chair, on the floor, half under the bed. Here, in this bed, he’d had sex with John Watson, or maybe Ian MacLeod. He remembered feeling convinced that it was John, but now he couldn’t remember why. The man had known things, had told Sherlock things that no one could know. He didn’t know how to explain that.

Nor could he explain his own feelings. He remembered the storm, how he’d felt the thunder as if it was inside of him. Emotion had overridden reason. He’d wanted to believe, and so he had. While the storm roared its fury overhead, he had loved John Watson. Now, with the sun pouring through his curtains, he could not understand what it meant. Had the universe changed, or had he?

He sank back into his pillow and rubbed his eyes. It was like waking up after some strange cocktail of drugs had ravaged his system. He felt empty, hollowed out, and utterly alone. But he remembered warmth, burning, falling…

His phone was buzzing. _Lestrade._ “I thought you didn’t want to know,” he growled.

“Coming up,” the DI replied.

Heavy feet were on the stairs. He dragged himself from the bed, wrapped his dressing gown around himself, and headed for the loo. Peering into the mirror, he saw his usual morning self staring back at him— hair a disaster, eyes puffy and a bit red, skin pale and stubbled, still creased by the sheets. So that was all right. He hadn’t turned into another person or a giant cockroach or anything else that might have told him more about last night. While he was relieving himself, he heard Lestrade’s knock. Flushing quickly, he went to the door and opened it.

“You wondered about the woman,” Lestrade said cheerfully. “Seems your boy wasn’t her only beau.”

He already knew this. “Relevance?”

“Well, you wondered why she was killed. Maybe this gives the husband a motive. Or one of the other toy boys.”

“Ridiculous.”

Lestrade looked at him curiously. “People kill for much stupider reasons, Sherlock. She was a cougar, catting around as the great cats do, collecting trophies. One of her toys got wind of the others and decided to confront her.”

“Where is the evidence of contact? I assume you found the other _toy boys_ in her email. She had an appointment with rjsmith1881, aka Ian MacLeod. Did she have any other appointments set for that morning or the previous evening?”

“No. But I’ve got something else interesting. Proves part of your theory, by the way.”

“Don’t be tedious, Lestrade. If you have something, just say it.”

“The wooly hat. Found it on the roof. And you’ll never guess what else we found up there.”

“Blackbeard’s treasure,” he said. “Nazi gold. The Crown Jewels.”

“Her phone.” Lestrade’s own phone buzzed. “Near the stairwell. He might have taken it and changed his mind, dropped it when he got to the roof.”

Sherlock cursed himself. Why hadn’t he noticed? MacLeod wasn’t wearing a hat when he collided with him outside the hotel. He should have been looking, should have found it before—

“Excellent.” Lestrade clicked to end his call and turned to Sherlock, grinning. “We’ve got something to test for a match.”

“Match— DNA?”

“The hair we found on the hat. Must have recently had his hair cut. Lots of short hairs inside. Enough to go on. We’ll soon know if he had sex with her. And we got prints from the phone.”

The prints would be worthless, he knew. There would be no matches. “How could he have had sex with her? She was dead when he arrived! We know that she died at least two hours earlier, unless you think—”

“Unlikely,” Lestrade agreed. “But it’s looking bad for your toy boy. DNA evidence is hard to beat.”

“Why do you keep calling him _my_ toy boy?” Sherlock asked irritably. “He’s not my— anything. I don’t…” He sighed.

“You okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

“You look wrecked.” Lestrade looked into his eyes appraisingly. “No drugs. That’s all I care about. Whatever else goes on in your Mind Castle—”

“Palace. Mind Palace. Method of Loci.”

Restraining an eye-roll, Lestrade replied, “Whatever else you’re thinking about, it’s probably none of my business.”

“Unless the hair has a follicle, any conclusion drawn from the DNA is highly questionable.” Sherlock paced. “He’s being framed.”

Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock, you seem determined to prove this gay little assassin innocent. I agree, he’s not Mary Morstan’s murderer, maybe not even her lover, but why do you think he’s being framed?”

“The semen was frozen.” He thought of the warm semen that had spread between them, that was still on his sheets, and shuddered, a faint echo of the orgasm that had torn through him last night. That had been real enough.

“And you could tell by looking at… what exactly?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Just have it checked. Prove me wrong. If it was frozen, there is no other explanation. Someone planted the semen in her body. And the phone on the roof. Why? Obviously, to make us think he’s guilty. But we’re not morons, so their little trick hasn’t worked, has it?”

“Who wants him guilty?”

“I don’t know— yet. He’s an assassin, though, so someone must want him dead.”

“I’ll ask Molly to look at it,” Lestrade replied. “Listen, I don’t really want to know, but—”

“Then I suggest you don’t ask.”

 

As soon as Lestrade was out the door, he started the shower, went to the bedroom to find clean underwear. Returning to the bath, he hung his dressing gown on the back of the door. His landlord hadn’t yet fixed the fan; the room was already steaming up. He thought about opening the window. Turning to wipe the mirror and gauge how badly he needed a shave, he stopped. Stared.

On the mirror, ghostly letters had appeared. It was an old trick, he knew. He’d even done it to Mycroft a few times. And there was the rubbing alcohol, sitting out— a clue. He watched as the steam crept over the mirror, revealing the message.

_JW + SH. NOT DEAD_

Another shudder ran through him, not unlike a rumble of thunder. _John’s arms around me, his body pressed against mine_.

Not a dream. And yet, improbable. Inexplicable.

 

There were things he needed to ask, and Mycroft was the only person who could possibly provide answers. He would have to approach him on his own ground, he decided. While his brother generally answered texts, he preferred conversations, where he could display his full range of innuendo without resorting to (shudder) emojis. Sherlock had a similar aversion to smiley-faces and cartoon poo, but enjoyed the terseness of text, the way he could leave so much for people to fill in, which meant they inevitably misunderstood and spilled information he could use. But Mycroft could never be manipulated so crassly. He could only be manipulated face to face, over a perfect cup of coffee and a spread of pastries. At this time of day, Mycroft might still be in bed answering email in his opulent dressing gown, while Anthea kept his cup warm. It was too bad, he’d often thought, that Mycroft was such a cold fish. Anthea might have been willing to warm more than his cup.

But Mycroft’s tastes in other humans were impossible to deduce. He treated most people with an egalitarian disdain. _Goldfish_ , he called them. The only people he had ever observed his brother treat differently were himself and Anthea. He treated Sherlock as one would expect Mycroft Holmes to treat an insufferable baby brother, with condescension, exasperation, and a very tight rein. So it had ever been, as long as Sherlock could remember. Anthea at least he treated with something like respect. He thanked her, not with the stiff formality he used with other people, but with genuine warmth. He sought her opinion, even her permission at times, if Sherlock could trust his observations. He saw her as his equal, it seemed, a person whose advice was valuable, whose instincts ought to be heeded. A man like Mycroft ought to have surrounded himself with such people. If he were less intelligent, he might have found many subordinates smart enough to fill that role. As the most intelligent man in any room, he trusted few with his confidence.

And now, he thought, there might be a third person who stood out from all the goldfish: John Watson. Whoever the man might be, he clearly had earned Mycroft’s trust. That was reassuring. And a bit unnerving.

 

His brother’s house was in Pall Mall. There was also the house in Kensington, but that had belonged to their parents, and now it was mostly leased out. The one in Sussex was used occasionally. Mycroft brought foreign visitors there every so often. Perhaps he'd even brought John Watson there. For some reason, this thought made Sherlock a bit jealous.

He didn’t really have any sense of home. He’d lived between his parent’s homes and their career assignments until they died. When he was twelve, his father died; at seventeen he lost his mother. And Mycroft, all of twenty-four, took over, dispassionately disposing of properties they no longer needed, focusing his attention on his younger brother’s _issues._

If he could have planned it all differently, Sherlock would have arranged to avoid anyone’s notice until he was well into adulthood. Instead, he was under his brother’s scrutiny during the most awkward years of his life, every flaw and uncertainty analysed, dealt with, and coerced into submission. Sherlock thought this normal until he went to uni and met other people his own age who were not under constant video surveillance.

He checked the time. Mycroft was a night owl, rarely asleep before three. Night was when he did all his research and planning. In the morning he would be awake by seven at the latest, making calls, answering emails, talking with Anthea. Sherlock knew he ranked fairly high in his division, but surmised from his habits that his duty to report was somewhat flexible. Meetings seemed to revolve around his own preferences, and Sherlock had never heard him take a phone call with anything like deference. He said he had chosen and trained his own man, which implied that he had no one above him who needed to know such things.

Once he’d been at his brother’s office in Whitehall and heard someone refer to him as the _Left Hand_. That pretty well summarised it, Sherlock decided. Mycroft was the sinister, ritually unclean left hand that kept the right hand of government from dirtying itself. The next time he stopped by Mycroft’s office, that man was gone. No one knew what had happened to him.

He took a cab, had the driver let him off a couple blocks away and walked the remaining distance. Geoffrey answered the bell, as expected.

“Mister Sherlock,” he said, appearing a bit nonplussed. “Your brother is not at home this morning.”

“I see,” he replied. “What has induced him to get his lardy arse out of bed this early?”

“I’m not privy to his calendar, but if you like, I can deliver a message when he calls in.”

“May I?” he asked, pushing past the butler. “Where is he?”

“Travelling,” the butler said without a trace of smugness.

“Sherlock.” Anthea stood at the door of his brother’s office. She wore a charcoal grey suit with a high-necked ivory blouse that somehow managed to look a bit sexy without revealing any skin, and heels just a notch above sensible. Nodding at Geoffrey, who slipped soundlessly away, she gave Sherlock a severe look.

“Where is my brother?” he asked.

“I can’t share that information.”

“He’s working undercover, then,” Sherlock said.

“I can’t tell you, Sherlock,” she said. “And certainly you realise that I won’t be accidentally dropping any clues.” Her face was impassive.

“You already have,” he replied. “How is Dr Jensen? Or is he Ian McLeod this week? Or maybe he’s John Watson now?”

Anthea opened Mycroft’s office and gestured for him to enter.

She gave him a steely look. “All right, Sherlock. The security cameras on Montague Street are working just fine. I know he was in your flat last night.”

“I’m disappointed. I thought I’d earned my brother’s trust at last.” He dropped into his brother’s chair, the power side of the desk.

“You may eventually earn his trust,” she replied, “but mine will be much harder to acquire. No games, Sherlock. I haven’t the time or the patience. I know you came here for information, so shall we start with that?”

Her tone made him sit up a bit. “What’s happened? Something has, or you wouldn’t be— that’s why he left this morning, isn’t it? That’s why Mycroft is gone as well. Some game is afoot. What is it?”

Her expression did not change.

Sherlock shrugged and settled into the plush chair. “Well, good news for your little assassin, I suppose. Work is the best cure for unruly agents gone rogue. Unless you’re planning to terminate him. Are you trying to pull him back into the fold, or planning to leave his body on the side of a road, minus any identifying features?” As he said this jokingly, he realised that it might be no joke, that John Watson might actually be in danger of permanent retirement. His pulse sped as he tried to keep his face from revealing his consternation. _My fault,_ he thought. _This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t interfered._

“He made a mistake,” she said. “Fortunately, it is not a fatal mistake.”

“Ah, you’ve already shut the Met out of the investigation, haven’t you?”

He might have imagined it, but a small smile flickered over her lips. “Scotland Yard will not be investigating the murder of Mary Morstan.”

“I thought not.”

“I haven’t all day, Sherlock. You’re curious about the man who slept in your bed last night.”

“I thought I’d found all the cameras in the flat,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Was it in the bedroom? If so, you no doubt had quite a show.”

She smirked. “If you recall, the electricity was out last night. I’m afraid that not even I can overcome the forces of nature. But you just confirmed what I suspected. What do you want to know?”

Mentally, he gave her kudos. If his head hadn’t still been a bit muddled, he would have remembered about the storm, the electrical outage. “Who is he?”

“We don’t use birth names in this business, as you know. He is whoever he needs to be.”

“My brother has a house, and pays bills, and is on the NHS, I assume, all under his own name. What name does his partner use?”

“Why does it even matter?”

“Because,” Sherlock leaned forward, prepared to observe her expression. “He was dead. I saw the file. He was Ian MacLeod, and then he was John Watson, and then— he was dead. And now he’s not. Perhaps this is above your pay grade, but I’d like to know how you managed that.”

Her expression was not what he expected: genuine perplexity. “What file? Where?”

“Scotland Yard. His murder. His autopsy. Photos of his ten-year-old body naked, dead, in a skip— like that other boy whose case you shut down. The one who rode the train with Ian MacLeod the day Llewellyn Jones died— a massive coincidence, if ever there was one. Did you switch his file with someone else’s so he could leave his past behind?”

“I don’t know what file you’re talking about. Ian MacLeod was a child whose father took pictures of him and sold them to paedophiles. His father went to prison for prostituting his daughter. Ian got a new name and went into foster care. He didn’t die; he grew up.”

“You may have erased the file, but my memory is only slightly less sharp than my brother’s. I remember what I saw. If you want people to think him dead, why has that file disappeared?”

“Sherlock, I know everything about the man that there is to know. That’s my job. Mycroft had his eye on him when he was at uni, and we finally recruited him when he was finishing med school. He’s gone by John Watson since he was nine years old, changed his name legally when he turned eighteen.”

He couldn’t figure out what his face was doing, but it must have been alarming because Anthea was looking concerned.

“I think,” she said gently, “that it would be better if you stayed away from him. Safer, for everyone.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “There was a boy in my class, at school. John Watson. He did something… good. He might have been my… my friend… but he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

He opened his eyes. “It was after I dropped out of Cambridge, when I found out. I had just met Lestrade. Computers had become a thing by then, and the Met was online, so I thought, why not look him up? Maybe we could meet, like normal people, for fish and chips and a pint…” He gave a choked laugh. “And there he was, dead. Bled to death, internal injuries, thrown away like rubbish. Not even ten years old. What that did to me…” he shuddered. “I’d dabbled in drugs during uni, but that was my first real descent. It was like losing… I can’t even explain what it meant.”

“It’s a common name, Sherlock. They’re not the same boy.”

He slammed his hand on the desk top. “He _is_ John Watson! He knows things! He told me— things we talked about, things that happened. Things I’ve never told another soul. How could he know if he wasn’t _my_ John?”

She was silent.

“This is what happened.” His voice shook. “You changed the records. You must have. They must have. _Someone_ must have. Because in the universe where we currently reside, dead people do not come back to life, show up in your flat, sleep in your bed, and tell you things that only a dead child could know.”

He was crying, he noticed. He hadn’t intended to do that. “It isn’t right,” he whispered. “It’s cruel. Why do you torture me?”

“You’re a rational man.” Her voice was calm, the way people try to sound when talking down a madmen. “Please listen to reason. When you dropped out of Cambridge, you were taking drugs— that’s the reason you dropped out. I know this because Mycroft and I were partners then, and he confided in me. Sherlock, you have no idea how much he worries about you. If you insist on eliminating the impossible, you must concede that it is at least a possibility that you hallucinated what you think you remember.”

“No. I know the difference between an hallucination and something I actually saw.” A stuttering sob escaped his lips. “My brain did not fabricate this.”

“The nature of hallucinations—”

“No. Spiders pouring out of the drain, ants under the skin, mollusks on the wall. Voices without bodies. Colours that vibrate. Wires that hum. All of these. But NOT photographs, words, date-stamped police reports.” Against his will, the photos rose up in his memory, forcing another sob from him.

“Sherlock, even if you did hallucinate his death, John Watson is alive.” Her voice was unusually gentle. “And if he told you those things, he is the boy you went to school with. I doubt he would have spent the night with you if you had meant nothing to him. Please, let this go. And for the time being, stay away. He’s working on something, and things have happened— he’s not thinking as clearly as he should. I will talk with him, when this is over, and—”

“Child trafficking,” he said, sitting straight up once more. “That’s what ties all these bits together.”

“Sherlock, please.” She sighed. “Don’t mess this up. People could die if we’re not careful.”

“You’re worried about Mycroft,” he said. “Why?”

She shook her head. “Stay away from John Watson.”


	15. Defender of Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Alexander means 'defender of man.'   
> Alexander Borodin was a Russian composer and chemist.

It was still dark, the power still off, when John awakened, knowing instantly that he was in Sherlock’s bed and that it was Sherlock wrapped around him. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of their bodies together, wishing he could put off thinking about what would happen next. There were still so many things to worry about.

Even though there was no logical explanation for Watson’s existence, Sherlock had believed him, he thought. A man who uncovered the truth by observing facts and evidence was not an easy man to convince when the best explanation he could offer contained words such as _impossible, but true_ and concepts as preposterous as _parallel realities._ The only piece of evidence he had, actually, was himself. He was the anomaly, the glitch that could not be explained. Sherlock had accepted him emotionally; what his brain would do with that acceptance remained to be seen. 

His phone, turned face-down on the floor, gave a brief flash that bounced off the ceiling. _Too soon._ His stomach clenched. Looking down at the offending item, he dreaded reading the message. It would most likely mean he would have to leave this bed, leave Sherlock. It might mean they would not see one another again. To have found one another again, only to lose this— well, it seemed cruel.

But life had never been particularly kind. Not the life he’d known.

He picked up the phone and saw a number flashing. _Message_.

Slipping out of bed, he looked back to make sure Sherlock was still asleep, then moved quietly into the other room.

He dialled the number, gave his code and verified it, waited for the message to play.

Janacek’s voice. _Alex. I need your help. Come quickly to the coordinates I’m sending you. Tell no one where you are going._

The message had been sent over an hour ago.

Once he’d dressed, he debated how to leave a message for Sherlock. He couldn’t tell him anything— not where he was going, who had summoned him, or why. But he knew that if Sherlock woke and found him gone, he might think he’d imagined the whole thing. He couldn’t bear to believe that.

And if he woke Sherlock up, he would demand explanations. He would deduce things from John’s face and his tone of voice and his body language —things he shouldn’t know. He would insist on coming with him. And that could not happen.

Quickly. No time to waste. He took the bottle of alcohol, wet his finger, and began to write on the mirror.

 

The coordinates led Watson to the Regents Canal at Kings Cross, a place where many homeless lived. Shivering a bit, he waited, wishing for a cup of something hot.A beggar, hunched over and limping, was coming down the path.

“Got a fag?” he rasped.

Knowing the area, Watson had come prepared. He reached into his pocket, handed the man a pack of cigarettes and a couple of pound notes.

The man nodded. “Thank you.” The voice changed completely, now incredibly posh.

Watson smiled. “Jan?”

“I’m happy you haven’t lost your sense of charity, Alex,” he said, straightening up. “And glad to know I can still pull a convincing disguise when needed.” He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. “You wouldn’t have a match by chance? I seem to have misplaced my lighter.”

Grinning, he offered him a book of matches. “God, Jan,” he began. Overcome by relief, shame, and a number of other emotions he couldn’t name, he suppressed the urge to pull his partner into a hug. “I’ve really fucked up. You must want to throttle me.”

The older man puffed until the cigarette was lit. He gave Watson a narrow look. “We do need to talk about that. Come, let’s walk into the gardens. I have a thermos of coffee if you’re in need of caffeine.”

They found a bench and sat. Watson waited as Janacek filled two paper cups with coffee and handed one to him. This conversation was not his to begin.

“Your girlfriend, Mary Morstan,” Janacek began. “I wondered if she might betray you.”

He shook his head. “If it was Mary, she didn’t do it willingly. Maybe she didn’t even know.”

Janacek lay his hand on Watson’s arm, gave it a light squeeze. “She wasn’t working for the syndicate. They may have used her, though, to get to you.”

“Jan,” he said, deciding that a full confession was in order. “I’m not denying that I made mistakes, starting with the decision to drink with people I didn’t know. I thought I’d sussed them out, and I was watching my drink. I obviously fucked up. Secondly, it was wrong for me to leave the safe flat. But someone got inside, left photos. That shouldn’t have happened; clearly the flat wasn’t secure. There were candid photos of both Mary and me, separately, taken with a telephoto lens. When she wanted to meet me, I felt I had to go, that it was too important to trust it to email, that maybe—” He laughed. “I even recognised that it might be a set up, but thought I was being careful.”

“You are thinking with your libido, Alex,” Janacek said tersely. “How an agent manages his recreation is his or her own business, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the job. Have as many lovers as you like. Just remember who you’re married to. Figuratively speaking, I mean.” He turned pale eyes on Watson. “That’s me, by the way.”

He nodded. “I was an idiot.”

“Yes, you were.” Smiling now, he placed a large hand on Watson’s shoulder. “We’re all idiots occasionally. Learn from it— but no sense dwelling on mistakes.” He took a drag on his cigarette and then a swallow of coffee. “Alex, I know you,” he said. “And I know my brother.”

So, he was aware. Janacek had never interfered in any of his liaisons before, but never before had any involved his brother. Or a murder.

“My brother is incredibly intelligent. He also has very poor judgement. I should have anticipated that he would figure out a way to track you down. He’s been insatiably curious about you.”

Watson nodded, knowing that the real reprimand was imminent. He tensed.

Janacek’s eyes were closed. The cigarette was paused, smoke trailing upwards. The hand itself was long, the narrow fingers graceful, like those of a pianist. Watson wondered briefly if he had taken lessonsas a child, if he and his younger brother had played duets together. So different, these two. But the hands were the same, artist’s hands.

The cigarette was raised to his lips, a deep drag, exhalation. “What I did not anticipate, however, was that _you_ would also exercise incredibly poor judgement.”

Explanation, remorse, promises— none of these could be said now. _Excuses only ruin a good apology_ , Jan always said. Watson felt a lead weight settle in his stomach, cold and unyielding. “I’m sorry.”

“Let me be unequivocal: you are never to see my brother again.” His voice was hard.

“Jan,” he began. “Your brother—”

The answer was swift. “No.”

“Hear me out, Jan.”

Janacek took a final drag, dropped the cigarette onto the path and crushed it rather forcefully with his boot. “My brother is the biggest idiot of all, and he will only lead you into more errors. Believe me, Alex, I say this not only to protect him, but for your good as well. I’m sorry I ever allowed the two of you to meet. That was careless.”

He sighed. Now he would have to come clean. This could no longer be secret. “That wasn’t the first time we met.”

Now his partner actually looked surprised. Watson felt absurdly proud for a brief moment, having never been the one to provoke that look previously.

Jan’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”

“We were classmates when we were nine, at a special school for gifted kids.”

“The Bennett School. I remember it. And you recognised him that day in my garden.”

Watson smiled. “Of course. A name and a face like that— couldn’t be two.”

“And he recognised you.”

“No, he had researched me, and for some reason thought I was dead.” No need to explain that had happened in another reality. “He hadn’t yet made the connection. He pursued me because he thought I had taken the name of the boy he’d known, whom he thought dead.”

“And he believes you?”

Watson nodded. “I think so.”

“Sherlock has never been very communicative. I never knew him to have friends in school, but I’m surprised that _you_ never spoke up before.”

“I didn’t know him for long. I was expelled mid-year for threatening another student. The profanity I might have lived down, but the threat to cut off his dick and shove it up his arse was too much, I think.”

A small chuckle escaped from Janacek’s lips. He shook another cigarette out of the pack. “Perhaps a bit graphic.” He took a match from the pack and struck it.

“That was John Watson back then. I assumed he had forgotten me, and though I never forgot him, I had to put a lot of things behind me when my father…” He closed his eyes for a moment, pushing that away. No point in revisiting it, not now. “I came to work for you, but never realised that he was your brother. I didn’t even know you had a brother until that day in the garden.”

Janacek cocked his head, studying him. “He means something to you.”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised. My brother inspires many feelings in others, but love isn’t one of them.”

_Love. Is that what this is?_ “He was kind to me when I needed kindness.”

“Again, I’m surprised,,” Janacek said. “And I’m sorry for what I must say. Anthea has instructed him to stay away from you. If you know my brother at all, you realise that promises mean little to him. That is why I have to ask you to promise. Stay away. I have no right to ask this of you, but you must understand. What we are involved in now demands our full attention. Do you agree?”

“Yes. I really do.”

“Perhaps, when we’ve wrapped up this…” he closed his eyes and sighed, “… this little project, we can discuss it again. I want you to be happy. God knows, this life gives us many things, but happiness isn’t always one of them. A sense of having done a job that matters, accomplishing a thing that rights the world on its axis just a bit, yes. That is the reward of our work, and it’s often enough for me. But there are times when we crave more, just to keep going. I understand completely. Your happiness matters to me, but your life does as well. Your death would break my heart, Alex. I hope you know that.”

“I would do anything for you, Jan.” Looking into the grey eyes of his partner, he meant it completely. It hurt to see a question in those eyes. “Anything. Please believe me.”

Janacek patted his leg. “I do.” He opened the thermos, shared out the remaining coffee between them.

Watson gratefully swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. He felt as if he’d slept too many hours. “Do you ever feel as if you’ve woken up in the wrong life?”

“Sometimes, I see the hand of destiny,” Janacek said quietly. “I think, if my parents hadn’t died when they did, if I hadn’t had the material security that most lack, if my brother had been more ordinary— I might have made different choices. But I am content. I do not wish my life were otherwise.” He paused, looking at Watson. “Why do you ask?”

“I never expected to have much of a life,” he began. “My father was what I’ve told you. I never had money, or family, or much talent. When I went to that school, I already knew that I would be kicked out, as I’d been from so many other schools. I’d given up hoping for more. I would simply accept whatever happened. Your brother changed that for me. It’s because of him that I am who you see.”

Janacek gave him a puzzled look. “And how did one small boy you knew for just weeks do that?”

“He gave me someone to fight for.”

“Well.” The older man quirked a little smile. An unusually fond smile. “No one is a better _defender of man_ than you, Alexander. I am glad to know where that comes from.” He took a swallow of the coffee, now cold, and made a face. “As for life, it can be neither right nor wrong. It simply is. To some extent, we make it what it is, but sometimes we merely react to events. Your life hasn’t been wasted, if that is what you fear.”

Watson nodded. “I know.” He was thinking about the underground train, the tunnel under Russell Square that had brought him here. The Q-moment. Had it changed everything, or would everything have changed anyway?

“You are discouraged, I perceive,” Janacek said. “It’s a hazard of the job. We are soldiers in a war that never ends. The difference we make may not be easily seen, but you must believe that we do matter. We are here for a purpose. That we will die one day is certain. Let’s make use of the time we’ve been given _._ ” He laughed suddenly. “Listen to me, cheering you on with talk of death.”

“You talk like a Viking,” he replied, smiling. “ _Fate will unwind as it must!“_ He felt a bit happier, though still chagrined by the reproof. “And now what?”

“We complete our little project,” replied his partner. “I’ve made some contacts, gathered intelligence from them, and now I think we have a plan.”

“You mentioned posing as a customer, as I recall. I might have done my part by now if I hadn’t fucked things up so badly. I’m afraid Moriarty knows who I am. He was the one who had my drink drugged.” His face flushed. “He may have been the James I remember, but I was pretty hazy by then. I think he… God this is embarrassing.”

“I know. I wasn’t aware his involvement was so…” He sighed. “What he did to you was heinous, whether you remember it or not. He is undoubtedly trying to frame you for the Morstan murder, using DNA evidence at the scene.”

“I was careful, Jan. You know I always am.”

“I mean the other scene. Your abduction. Your rape. He collected your semen.”

Watson wasn’t sure how, but it had all become a hundred times more horrifying. A man who could reach anywhere, manipulate evidence, move people around like tokens— this was a man to be feared. Every organisation had its chinks, its weak spots where they could work their way in. There were always stupid people who made errors. This man seemed to be everywhere, doing everything at once, exploiting every crack.

Janacek squeezed his arm. “No worries. The case has been removed from the Met’s purview.”

“How many cases have we had to shuffle away now?” Watson said. “This has to stop.”

“So, we begin, and it will stop. You will embed yourself here, among the homeless. You are a down-on-your luck army vet, a wounded doctor who lives and works among the vets here, tending their ills. You’ll need to grow a beard, I think. Glasses, perhaps, wire-rimmed. You’ll not likely see Moriarty at this point. I’ll introduce you to our contact, Simpson.”

“And he can get me in as a driver?”

Janacek smiled. “Even better. I have learned several things. First, Moriarty doesn’t attend the parties. He has underlings who do that. I am covering that angle, anyway. Second, he suffers from terrible migraines. He has tried nearly everything, seen every doctor, specialist, and health guru in the UK and most of Europe. What he hasn’t tried is you.” He took Watson’s hands in his. “He hasn’t tried these.”

He laughed. “Look, I’m pretty good at massage, but I can’t work magic. And if you think I can just go in there, shove a needle in his neck and walk out scot free—”

“Psychology suggests that we all heal ourselves, to some extent. By the time you meet him, your reputation for healing will precede you, and in his desperation, he will believe. Several of the vets here are prepared to give testimonials as to your power.”

“He talks to homeless vets?”

“No, but his people do. They recruit drivers, guards, and other unskilled labour here.”

He thought about it. He’d killed dozens of men in multiple ways, but Moriarty scared him. He didn’t know if it would matter how close he got to the psycho. The man didn’t play by normal rules. He was unpredictable, absolutely dangerous.

“What he did to you was pure intimidation. He wants you to fear him,” Janacek said, almost as if he could read his thoughts. “A tactic. I doubt whether it meant anything more to him.”

“He’s going to recognise me. The man’s much too smart not to see through a beard and a pair of glasses.”

“He will. And I think he will take the bait. He will enjoy letting you close, waiting for you to strike.”

“Jesus. He’s got to have people around him all the time. I’ll never get a chance.”

“He has people, yes. But he seems to think himself invincible. There is talk, very hushed talk about what goes on in that compound of his. In the most basic terms, it is a cult.”

“A cult? Like a religion?”

“Yes. The Cult of Moriarty.” Janacek knocked another cigarette out of the pack, struck a match and inhaled. “It will be your job to get close to him, learn how he operates. If you can, you will kill him. And if you have planned well, there may be a chance for you to get out.”

“So, I’m the bait?”

Janacek smiled grimly. “Let’s be frank, then. He has been trying to get your attention for weeks. If he wanted to kill you, he could have done that already with little fuss. It is clear that he knows about you and wants to meet you. You will have to improvise as you go, look for help where you find it. Surely he has not inspired loyalty in all who surround him. You will find the weak spots and use them. If you need extraction, our usual signal will suffice.”

Watson felt a shiver run through his body. _This will be the one that kills me_ , he thought. He had in his grimmer moments imagined his unidentified body lying on a slab in morgue somewhere. Once he would have said, _better than dying in a nursing home, pissing in a nappy and eating through a straw_.

“I know I’m asking a lot, Alex.” Janacek leaned towards him, putting a large hand on his shoulder. “This is a long game, and our choices are very limited here. I saw the opening and had to put the possibility before you. You are the best, Alex, without peer. If you were not, I would never propose this. And thus, it is entirely your choice. No one will blame you if you want to walk away. If you do, we will proceed as originally planned, with you as a driver. That would keep you out of his radar a bit longer. But it might make it harder to achieve our goal. He is the key. As long as he lives, his organisation— his _cult_ remains strong. Without its leader, it will fall.”

The silence stretched out between them. They waited.

It was an insane plan, a game with odds that were not friendly. Getting out might be impossible. But how else were they to bring this organisation down? And it must be destroyed, its leader killed. It was everything Watson lived for, the reason for his commitment to Janacek. He could make a difference, bring down this man and his cult. There were other traffickers, to be sure, but this would save actual lives— children like him, who hadn’t had a choice.

“I’m not afraid to die,” he said. _Though now I feel as if there is someone I might live for._ In a way, he’d always lived for Sherlock. Doing this was simply living the creed he’d adopted that day in the school yard. _Fight the bullies. Protect the innocent._ “I’ll do it.”


	16. Demon Doctor

“Crack shot…” Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade took a pull on his pint, wiped his mouth. “What? Are you still on about that?”

“Of course I’m still _on about that_ ,” he replied. “Who killed Jefferson Hope? Are you really all right with not knowing?”

The DI shrugged. “I can live with it.”

“Somebody shot a man,” repeated Sherlock. “A crack shot, military training, acclimatised to violence, strong moral principle.”

“So you said. But the man he shot is a man nobody will miss.”

“I agree that Hope— ironic name, isn’t it?— was not a very nice man, but— you’re not a bit curious as to how someone knew he and I were there, waited until they had a clean shot, and took him out? How did they even know?”

Lestrade signalled the barmaid for another round. “So, you’ve got a guardian angel. Unless that angel starts shooting more cabbies or taking out everyone who’s threatened to kill Sherlock Holmes, I’m counting it as a case not likely worth the time it would take.” He plucked a chip from the basket between them, chewed it thoughtfully. “You sure it wasn’t your brother? I mean, someone who works for him. He must have an assassin or two on the payroll.”

Sherlock lapsed into silence. He was almost positive that Watson was the mysterious shooter, but Mycroft had not answered any of his recent messages. That meant he was in the field, his phone left at home, in his safe. Even when out of the country, he always responded to Sherlock’s texts. He was using a burner.

And John Watson had disappeared as well. That was worrying.

“Eat something,” Lestrade urged.

“Not hungry.” He’d been forced to accept a pint, but had spent most of the last half hour swirling the bottom half of it in the glass, watching the foam make patterns down the side. He was thinking about the last time he saw John Watson.

“All right. What exactly does your brother do, anyway?”

Sherlock snorted. “He’s the British government.”

Lestrade laughed. “Seriously?”

“No, but his position is such that if you have to ask, you’d be better off not knowing. People ask questions, then disappear. Ignorance is survival, my dear man.”

“Not asking,” Lestrade said immediately. “Don’t need to know.” He took a swallow of beer. “So that’s it, then. You can go back to being bored, and I can go back to whatever it is I do when I’m not warning you to stay out of things.”

“Moriarty,” said Sherlock. He raised his pint, took a warm swallow. “Who’s he?”

“Common Irish name.”

“Of course it is. No need to state the obvious.”

“And you’re asking because…?”

“Last word the cabbie said. He shouted it, then died.”

“Just— shouted it,” said Lestrade, frowning. “In response to what?”

“I asked him who my _fan_ was, the one who sponsored him. He didn’t want to say, but I put my foot on him and pushed, hard. Motivated by pain and imminent death, that’s what he said. Dying people always want to clear their conscience.” In this case, though, it made little sense, he thought. Hope was posing as a master criminal, but it was obvious that he wasn’t a master of anything. Bleeding, knowing he had only minutes, he ought to have wanted to maintain his reputation. _Why hadn’t he taken his secret to his grave?_

“You don’t think he was just a dying man who decided to take a few innocent people with him?”

“He was dying, true, but he was not nearly smart enough to figure out how to set such a puzzle up. The puzzle was done for my benefit, courtesy of Moriarty, if you believe a dying cabbie.”

Lestrade snorted. “You’ve a fairly high opinion of yourself. Now criminals are tripping over themselves to get your attention.”

“Not criminals, plural. Just one criminal. A consulting criminal, apparently.”

The DI rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jesus. That’s all we need. A criminal as arrogant and insufferable as Sherlock Holmes. How come we never heard of this Moriarty before, if he’s such a big deal?”

“That’s is precisely why it’s so brilliant,” Sherlock replied, smiling. “He has kept out of sight for a while now, biding his time. He’s had an eye on me, sizing me up. Now he’s getting ready to begin the game.”

“What game?”

“Murder, of course.”

“So, he’s young? Inexperienced?” Lestrade gave a short laugh. “He’ll make mistakes.”

“I didn’t say he was inexperienced. I’ve no doubt that if we spent an evening going through all your cold cases, we would find him lurking there, behind the scene, learning his trade. I believe he has perpetrated some of London’s most perplexing crimes.”

“What’s it mean, a consulting criminal? I mean, you consult with us, help us out when we’re in over our heads. Yeah, I admit it— you earn your keep. But a criminal who consults? With whom?”

“Other criminals. He looks for talent, nurtures it. Probably makes a few suggestions. Maybe offers some resources.”

“That’s— a bit terrifying. Is this above my pay grade? Do I want to know how you know all of this?”

“I don’t know it. But I know my brother. How many cases have you been bounced off? The body in the alley, the body in the hotel, the boy in the skip, and now— Mary Morstan, girlfriend of my brother’s pet assassin—”

“Pet assassin?”

“Ignore that.” Sherlock stared reproachfully at his pint, which was almost gone. Holding his liquor was not one of his talents. “No idea what I’m talking about.”

Lestrade snorted. “I know you have a kind of scary crush on the man, but have you met him?”

Sherlock blinked. “Slept with the enemy,” he muttered. Ian MacLeod was so experienced, he’d even convinced Sherlock that he was a dead boy. Or maybe it was Mycroft, who could make anything disappear— _people, documents, videotape, evidence…_

“I’m guessing I don’t want to know,” Lestrade said. “Sherlock, keep it together. If this Moriarty is what you’re suggesting, he’s not done with us. Not done with you. If he can set something like this up, we need to be vigilant. I mean, if there’s a bloke as smart as you out there, setting up murders, we need to be on our best game.”

“Moriarty is not as smart as Sherlock Holmes,” he replied. “He’s stupid. And dangerous.” _And I apparently have a guardian angel._

 

In the morning he felt ill. John Watson had disappeared days ago and other than a message on his mirror, he had no evidence that he was alive, or even real.

“Calls himself John Watson,” Sherlock muttered as he dragged himself into the shower. “Knows things about me. What do I know about him? He’s an assassin. He works for Mycroft.” _And I might be obsessed with him. And obsession is just another name for love._

 

By the time he’d had a cup of tea and a piece of toast, a woman he knew as Jennie had appeared at his door. She was holding one of Jay Barnes’s drawings.

“I know who he is,” she said. “Well, not his name, but I know where he lives.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

She nodded. “I’d a nasty cut once. Some boys throwing rocks at a puppy and I tried to stop them. He offered to take me to the A&E, said I needed stitches. But I wouldn’t go. For personal reasons, you know.”

Probably hiding from an abusive boyfriend, he thought. Or pimp. “How do you know where he lives?”

“He took me there, stitched me up himself. Said he was a doctor.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

She shook her head. “And never since. But I know his face. He was kind to me, and I can’t forget that.”

“Do you remember the address? Can you take me there?”

She looked surprised. “It's just around the corner. Bedford Place, across from the park.”

His mouth dropped open. All this time, they’d been living a stone’s throw away from one another. Another coincidence. The universe had been just waiting for them to run into one another.

He pressed ten pounds into her hand. “Thank you. You’ve been invaluable.”

Like the buildings on his own street, it was a refurbished block of terraced flats, four storeys high, not very expensive, but well tended. In another ten years, it might be run down and full of immigrants, or it might be re-gentrified into high-priced condominiums.

He stepped into the foyer and looked at the letterboxes. He didn’t expect to see Watson or MacLeod, but it might be interesting to see what alias he used here. Jennie had said the flat was two flights above the main floor, flat number 3, facing the back. He found the corresponding letterbox: _2-3 / R Smith_. _Not very imaginative._ It wasn’t as if postal carriers paid any attention to names on boxes, though. He himself had received letters for people who no longer lived at the flat he rented on Montague Street. Maybe later, he’d pick the lock on this box, see who was writing to R Smith.

There was no lift, so he climbed the stairs. R Smith’s neighbours were all quiet, he guessed. At this time of day, children might be getting home from school. So, no families. Probably flats this small attracted mostly single people, labourers, maybe a few low-level office workers. There were no sounds of people except for one flat on the first floor, where he could hear a telly going. He reached the second floor. All quiet.

The man could be inside, but he doubted it. Just in case, he knocked lightly. _An assassin must have good ears_ , he thought. _And excellent reflexes_ , he remembered. He didn’t need to pound harder to know that the flat was unoccupied. He took out his tools and set to work. In less than a minute, the door was open.

“Well, Mr Smith,” he said to the empty room. “Evidently you see no need for a deadbolt. Surprising, given your profession.”

As he looked around the flat, he tried to see the life this man was living. The furniture was all simple, generic. Nothing kitschy or classy about this place. Muted colours, few personal touches. _Like a hotel room_ , he thought. _A man who wishes to be anonymous, who has learned to suppress his personality_. When he approached the bookshelf, he began to learn more. Watson apparently liked action movies. He had the entire James Bond series, all four Die Hard flicks, and the three Bourne movies. A few superhero offerings. Next to these were _Indiana Jones_ , _Slumdog Millionaire_ , and _The DaVinci Code_.

“Schlocky action movies,” Sherlock said. “Escapism?” No romantic comedies here, no historical dramas.

The books were mainly history and medical texts. One volume of short stories entitled _The Elephant Vanishes_ , with an inscription: _To Alex. A few people I thought you should know live in these pages. You won’t regret making their acquaintance. Your friend, Jan._

Mycroft’s handwriting. Jan was for Janacek, he assumed, his brother’s code name. _Alex?_ Yet another alias, he assumed. The man was like a chameleon. 

In the bedroom he found nondescript clothing and a laptop computer. Surprisingly, the laptop opened without a password. This meant, of course, that there was nothing personal stored on it, a hypothesis which he confirmed when he found the documents folder empty. When it came to personal information, the man was a neat-freak.

Did the man have no personal life? The most personal thing he’d found was the book inscribed by Mycroft. He would not ask his brother more about him, would not tell him he’d figured out who he was. He would certainly not tell him he’d slept with his pet assassin. He had never told Mycroft about John, never shared the sorrow when he learned of his death. It felt private. While there was little that escaped Mycroft, he doubted his brother had been aware that many of Sherlock’s choices in life had been determined by those few moments on the playground, that brief handhold in the office, and those autopsy photos.

It had been days since he’d seen Watson, and it was clear that he hadn’t been in the flat for longer than that. Someone had been in earlier and vacuumed, but there was no smell of food or cooking, no sign that the shower or bath had been used.

He sat in the chair for a few minutes, thinking. _JW + SH. Not dead. We are one._

 

As he walked back to his own flat, he realised how hopeless it was. Even he, the Great Deducer, would not be able to find a man who was able to remain virtually invisible as long as he wished to evade notice. The man needed to disappear and had the skill to do so.

He stayed in his flat for a few days, thinking about what might have happened to Mycroft. He’d long known that his brother was more than the minor bureaucrat he pretended to be, that he was actually involved in the deepest type of espionage. And if Anthea was worried about him, there was a good chance that Mycroft might be dead.

This thought disturbed him. He’d chafed under his brother’s scrutiny and protection for years, but to be suddenly free of that hovering presence was unnerving.

He hadn’t heard from Lestrade in several days, not since Jefferson Hope had ended his spree of serial suicides with a single bullet, fired by an invisible man. He thought about dropping in at Scotland Yard, but maybe that would only make Lestrade more cautious about sharing information with him. He would have to do his own leg work.

He walked the streets, looking for his irregulars. “Irregulars” he had dubbed them— the homeless, mentally ill people he’d fraternised with during his worst days. Truth be told, he found his slightly unbalanced peers much kinder than the “normal” people he associated with. They were blunt and plain-spoken, a bit peculiar, but sympathetic. It was like belonging to an unhinged fraternity of the most invisible people in society.

Strangely, none of them were in their usual places. Walking down Marylebone, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a homeless woman grabbed his arm.

It was Brenda, an unmedicated psychotic who was not usually violent. Her eyes darted from side to side, probably wondering if secret agents had tagged her location.

She was in her mid-forties, and, from what he could tell, had been living on the fringes of society for half of her life. She wore a blue skirt, blue jumper, blue jacket, blue hose and shoes, as blue was the only colour that protected her from surveillance. So she claimed. Her navy blue hat was pulled down below her eyebrows.

“They’ve come,” she announced without pleasantries. “The demons have escaped.”

He recalled how they used to have long conversations discussing the purpose of her particular demons. Many of them seemed benevolent, and Sherlock assured her that they were probably just lonely, needing company before forced to return to their demon-realm. But a few were rather mean.

“Who is it this time?” he asked.

“New,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. Since she never looked at anyone straight-on, he did not feel slighted. “New. New demon.”

“What’s happened here?” he asked, indicating her arm. It looked as if she had been cutting herself again.

“Demons need a way out,” she said. “Way out. Way out.”

He looked more closely. Brenda was afraid of doctors and never willingly sought out help. And yet, someone had carefully tended her wounds, applying some ointment, most likely antibiotic, and wrapping gauze around them, which had loosened and was now around her wrist. “Did you go to the A&E?”

She shook her head, causing her hair to fall over her eyes. “Demon doctor.”

“Do you mean a doctor who knows about demons?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Drive out demons. Demon doctor.”

He thought about this. If someone was in the homeless camp, patching up injuries, he hadn’t heard about it. Of course, he hadn’t been there in a while.

“I’d like to meet this demon doctor,” he said. “Can you take me to him?”

She shook her head. “Not here. Not there. Disappear.”

“Does he live in the camp?”

Her eyes scanned the street. She was becoming more agitated.

“Brenda,” he said, kneeling down on the sidewalk so she could see his face. “It’s all right. I won’t tell them we talked.”

Her eyes stopped roving and zeroed in on him. He had never seen her face so terrified. “Things,” she whispered. “Not what they seem.”

“What do they seem to be, Brenda?”

“All different.” She licked her lips and continued staring at him. “Don’t be fooled. Demons are here.” She grabbed his hand suddenly. “Run away.”

“Wait,” he said as she began walking quickly away. But he didn’t know what to say. She was always convinced that _they_ were after her, so this ought to seem normal. But it didn’t. Something had happened to her. Involuntarily, he shuddered.

“Demon watching you,” she said, turning. “Be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Easter Egg: The Elephant Vanishes is a book of short stories by Haruki Murakami.


	17. Pandora's Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names Glossary:  
> Ian MacLeod, Peter Jensen, Alexander Borodin, Robert Smith, James Brooks...   
> And finally, John Watson.

He spent his days in various settlements around the park, chatting with the other vets and tending the various ailments of the homeless population. Janacek may have made a few forays into the park before deciding on this course, but it remained for Watson to lay the groundwork. _The long game_ , Jan had said. Well, it might be very long.

Simpson, his contact, had mentioned him to a few of Moriarty’s recruiters, but like all men whose job it is to create a workforce, they guarded their own positions with jealousy, requiring any interested parties to prove their worth before they would offer them any tidbits.

He learned patience, settled into his new surroundings, his new home. The weather was getting colder and wetter, though, and the sooner he could be in a warmer place, the better.

One damp morning he cadged a cup of hot coffee off a business man who looked harried, balancing his briefcase, coffee, and pastry, just as he started to stuff his change in his pocket. Watson knew how to pick a donor. People who have money in their hands, even if not generous by nature, might throw a couple of pounds at a beggar, just to be relieved of his presence. Young women were the least generous. Even with money in hand, they rarely gave. He’d even had a few women lecture him on how _if he were really needy, he would go to a shelter_. Young men were a mixed bag. He selected carefully, based on clothing and facial hair. Conservatively dressed people were tighter. Older people were often the most generous, especially those who were less well dressed. All in all, it was hard to predict, depending more on the vibe a person gave off, rather than age, gender, or economic status.

He sat on a bench, enjoying his drink, wishing he’d scrounged enough to buy a pastry. He resigned himself to a free lunch down the street, at the mission.

The benches were full of people reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, waiting for the bus. He studied his fellow breakfasters out of habit. It had often occurred to him that other people didn’t do this. They might idly stare around themselves, taking in a detail here or there, but they didn’t draw any but the simplest conclusions from what they observed — if they drew any at all. They rarely looked at another person closely, much less made eye contact. And they never considered the possibility that someone in the vicinity might have been sent to kill them. For most people, that was probably a safe assumption, but for Watson it was suicidal. Thoughts such as these sharpened his focus; one is never so observant as when one feels death standing close by.

Having no friends was an advantage in his profession. No familiar faces to pop up when he needed to look out for a particular face. No worries about endangering people he cared about. Isolation gave him the freedom not to care.

He did care about Janacek, but it seemed odd to call him a friend. They were partners, their minds linked by the need to understand so many things about one another. Telepathic, almost, in some sense. Nothing romantic; they were alike in their disinterest in personal relationships. He suspected that if Janacek had liaisons, they were much like his own, impersonal and carefully scheduled so as not to collide with real life. If he’d been asked, Watson would have said that he felt _respect_ for Janacek, but that word said absolutely nothing about the connection that he’d felt almost instantly when he sat across the desk from him in a basement room in an obscure government office. _Respect_ was cold and distant; what Watson felt was real and warm.

He’d made that connection with just one other person. How odd that they should turn out to be brothers, and so different from one another.

And now, real life had made his job so much harder. Getting so close to Mary had been a mistake; he blamed himself for her death, readily accepted the consequences to himself, grieved for her husband and children.

And Harry might be missing. Again he wondered why he hadn’t heard from Harry. Perhaps she had sold her ticket and used the money for drugs. He had no way of tracking her, not without assistance. She was living in London with someone named Quan, but he had no last name, no address, no phone number. The man was in jail, she’d said. He had a sister up north. Not enough to go on. Anthea had said she’d find his sister and make sure she was all right, but he hadn’t heard anything. Still marvelling at finding her again, seeing her a grown woman, he hadn’t considered that they might not meet again.

And now Sherlock. His own fault. _Sentiment,_ Jan would lecture him. _Found on the losing side._ So foolish to have gone to his flat, to have said the things he said, to have let himself believe that they could be together. He loved Sherlock, had loved him from the day he’d first seen him, the moment he’d heard the notes of _The Holly and the Ivy_ filling the school auditorium. Though before he wouldn’t have described it as _love_ , now he understood what his feelings really were. That love had seen him through rough times. He didn’t think he could stay away forever, even if Janacek had forbidden them to meet again. Let him just get through this operation, and he would tell Janacek. If necessary, he would resign, if that would make it possible to be with Sherlock.

If Sherlock also wanted that. Maybe he didn’t. _I want you,_ he’d said. Nobody said anything about _love_ that night. _I’m sorry_.

A group of noisy teens traipsed through the park, on their way to school. Three boys and two girls, about sixteen, laughing and flirting with one another. At that age, he’d been living in a fairly awful foster home, trying to finish school a year early. He’d never hung out with his classmates, gone for coffee, or had a date. His past separated him from his fellow students. He’d had sex (non-consensual), but did not date until he was at uni; aside from the sex, dating did not interest him much. He went out with few women, who always seemed to want more. With the men he’d dated, it was only about the fucking. He appreciated their disinterest in a relationship.

And now he had no one, which ought to mean he was safe— if safety was even possible in the Q-Axis. He thought about all the _what if_ worlds, all the axes going through that one point on the graph. There might be worlds where he’d had two parents, where he and his sister had been cherished. In that world, he might be a person who didn’t look for anonymous sex or avoid letting people know him. Or kill for a living.

In another reality, he might be happy. And until this very moment, he hadn’t realised just how unhappy he’d been. Jan was right. Their lives had meaning and purpose, but happiness stood just out of reach.

In another world, he might be dead. Sherlock had thought him dead—

As he stood to bin his cup, a thought hit him so hard that he stumbled a bit and had to grab the back of his bench.

Sherlock was in danger.

Mary was brutally murdered— because of him. Now, Sherlock could meet the same fate. It would have been better for both of them if he hadn’t let Sherlock see who he was.

That night, he’d felt as if he stood at a juncture, the crashing of thunder marking the collision of two worlds. Sherlock had believed him dead, and that had protected him from Moriarty. Whatever axis they now stood on, knowing that John Watson was alive was dangerous. The possibility of capture, imprisonment, torture, even the spectre of death— these were just part of Watson’s job description. But he had no right to endanger Sherlock. Janacek was right; both of them were in more peril now than before they met. Sherlock now stood at that juncture with John, and both of them were likely to fall.

But why did Sherlock think him dead, if his brother did not?

Something had changed. Neither of them had been in the Q-Axis before; they had both been drawn here by some unknown force. He didn't understand how it worked, this thing that was so contrary to the laws of physics. Did people come and go between alternate realities? If that happened, did they lose all their memories of the other place, blend into the new world? Did they, like Watson, only pretend to fit in, quietly concealing their derangement? Perhaps it was a psychosis, this belief that he remembered what was clearly not true, his memory of a world that existed only in his mind. This was the very definition of madness.

_I came through the abandoned tunnel. There must be other ways into this world._ Was it the crime scene, the hotel murder? Or maybe before that. They hadn’t talked about it that night. He didn’t know if Sherlock understood what he had figured out. Intellectually, he might accept the possibility of alternate universes, but the reality was impossible to prove. _I need to understand,_ he’d told Watson. _You cannot be him._

What if he could go back? What if that other world, the one he left, was there waiting for him in the abandoned tunnel at Russell Square?

He sank down onto the bench, trying to remember that world where he’d limped. He’d worked with Janacek, just like here, but there were no terrorist bombings in the underground, no scar on his shoulder, his sister had died, and he'd never heard the name Moriarty.

The bombings. He didn’t remember them, but now he’d read about them. They were at the Russell Square station. Coincidence?

Maybe there was some kind of portal there, something that had opened up, pulled him into this Q-axis where he and Jan— and maybe Sherlock too— would have to do battle with Moriarty. Here, he’d finally met the boy, now a man, who had changed the course of his life. Here, he’d finally known happiness, if only for one night. Here, that happiness was doomed.

And if he left this reality, there was no guarantee of happiness. Either way, stay or go, he might lose Sherlock. Statistically, the universe held infinite realities where they had never met.

The grief that filled him at this thought was what made him grab the bench and sit back down, closing his eyes. That moment, holding Sherlock’s hand, was more than just a bittersweet memory; in it, he had found the small piece of his heart that still might love. Without knowing it, he had opened Pandora’s box when he went into that abandoned tunnel and climbed the rickety stairs up to the Q-axis. He’d found Sherlock here and, for a few hours, he’d been happy.

But now Hope, which had always been at the bottom of that box when horrible things filled his mind, had fled. He was truly alone.

“Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes and found a woman staring at him with concern. Brown eyes, straight hair, mousy, plain, but sweet. _Lives alone, has three cats, knits hats for the homeless and tiny sweaters for her nieces and nephews, has a crush on a man who will never love her back. Has been stood up so often, she’s come to expect rejection._

Her fingers went around his wrist. _Medical person — nurse? Doctor?_

“Your pulse is elevated,” she said. “Are you feeling light-headed?”

“I’m fine,” he said, slipping into his mask. _Smile, nod._

“You looked like you were going to faint,” she said, letting go of his wrist. “I’m Molly Hooper.”

“No, it’s fine… just remembered something and…” He started to stand.

She put her hand over his. “You shouldn’t get up yet. You’re still pale.” She smiled. “I’m a doctor.”

“So am I,” he said without thinking. _I’m slipping,_ he thought. All the years of caution built into him, and it had taken just one random thought to derail his defences.

“Really? I work at Bart’s, in the pathology lab.”

“The morgue?”

She blushed. “Yeah. Usually I just say I’m a pathologist. People think you’re weird if you tell them you work with dead bodies. Where do you work?”

Admitting he was a doctor was a mistake. _Another mistake._ Here he was sitting in the park, dressed like a homeless person (worn jeans, faded hoodie), wearing a scruffy beard and a cap pulled down over his forehead. Now he would have to figure out what identity would be safe to assume. He didn’t generally create new identities on the fly. That led to mistakes. Instead, he had a dozen identities that suited a variety of circumstances. Janacek had taught him this. In assuming an established identity, he ran less risk of forgetting the details of that persona’s life.

_Who am I today?_ He rapidly flipped through his mental rolodex of personae.

Ian McLeod was a massage therapist, not a doctor. Scotland Yard knew about him by now.

Peter Jensen was a doctor, a bit older, moustache but no beard, and he never wore jeans or trainers. Danish accent.

Robert Smith had a flat on Bedford Place to which he could never return.

Alex Borodin was a voice on a phone, exchanging messages with other voices. Partner to a man whom he would protect without hesitation.

James Brooks was a philanderer and possible murder suspect.

He was out of identities. _Who is John Watson?_

“I mostly do locum work,” he said. “Right now I’m doing _pro bono_ , doctoring the homeless. They won’t always go to a clinic, you know. I look for ways to help.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Most people don’t realise how many homeless people there are and what problems they have.”

“That’s true,” he said. “I think I’m okay now, Molly. Thanks for your concern. I guess I didn’t eat much yesterday and all that sugar I put in the coffee combined with the caffeine just knocked me for a loop.” He smiled. “I’m not dizzy now. I guess I should get going.”

She nodded, her smile tucked away. In that nod, he understood that she felt brushed off. Probably a lot of people did that to her. She was, in her own way, as unremarkable as himself, the kind of person one might forget in minutes.

“Maybe,” she said, “maybe we could have coffee some time. I mean, just to talk.”

_Doesn’t have many friends. Neither do I. She desperately needs a friend, and I can’t afford one._

He looked down, laughing softly. “Do you always try to pick up disreputable looking men in the park?”

Her cheeks reddened. “Oh, I don’t think you’re disreputable. You look… very nice. And you’re a doctor, so—”

_Naive. And desperate._ “Do you believe everything people tell you?” It came out a bit harshly.

She frowned; her hands twisted the strap of her bag. “I guess I’m a bit gullible. You’re not a doctor?”

“I was a surgeon, went to Afghanistan, came back wounded.”

The look of concern returned. “That’s why you work with homeless people. A lot of veterans are homeless.”

She would ask for his number, and he would give her a fake one. She would try ringing him up and realise he had no interest, just like all the men before who had given her fake numbers. He would simply be the most recent bastard to dash her hopes.

“John Watson,” he said. Telling her his name was a small thing really, just a little gift he could give this kind woman. He held out his hand. And there were hundreds of John Watsons in the UK alone. In the world, perhaps thousands.

“John.” She brightened. “You look like a John.” She took his hand. “I’m happy to meet you, John Watson.”

“Likewise.” He smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit off the grid right now, I’m afraid. Lost my phone and living in a homeless camp. But if you give me your number, we might meet up for coffee some time.”

She frowned and looked at him as if realising something important. “I understand. You don’t have to—”

“I’m not a stalker, I promise. And I’m not brushing you off.”

“You’re gay,” she said.

Now his eyes widened. “You can tell?”

She smiled. “I’ve learned. There was a man I had a crush on for months before I realised he was gay. Now we’re friends. He’s taught me to weed out the gay ones. I get tripped up by the married ones sometimes, but now I can usually tell if a man is gay.”

“Amazing,” he said. He supposed that John Watson, unlike James Brooks, was gay. He’d just never thought about it — about who he really was. It was almost as if there was no John Watson any longer. Maybe now, there could be. “Look, I don’t have a lot of friends. But I’d love coffee some time,” he said. “Tell me your phone number. I promise I’ll call.”

John Watson was a fool, he decided. A fool who needed a friend, it seemed.

 

There was much he wanted to know before he had to disappear entirely. At the library, he sat at a computer and typed: _Hamish MacLeod._

He signed into the Met server in order to see the man’s criminal record. _Producing and distributing child pornography: suspended sentence._ The record showed that he was jailed for pornography, that he’d lost custody of his two children. The daughter had run away at fourteen, gone into prostitution. The son, younger by three years, went into the foster care system.

Somehow, Hamish had managed to stay out of jail after his release. Forbidden to see his children, he’d disappeared.

Next, Watson checked death records. No demise reported; it was as if Hamish Watson had disappeared after prison. He could have died, Watson realised, and been buried as an unidentified corpse.

Watson didn’t think so. He knew his father, even after all these years. Having a strong self-preservation instinct, his father would have burrowed deeper into the criminal world, always staying anonymous. In his gut, he sensed that his father was still out there, doing what he had done with John and his sister, only now with anonymous immigrant children.

_Moriarty_.

 

He left the library as soon as his research was done. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he couldn’t afford to spend time sitting at a computer, leaving evidence behind. He wiped the keyboard, pulled his hoodie up, and walked out the front entrance of the library with a crowd of people he didn’t know.

He’d spent several weeks in the park, and now the weather was definitely cold. He went to a used clothing store and purchased a jacket — sturdy, warm, but well-worn. He bought two pairs of socks, a change of underwear, gloves, and a hat. A worn canvas rucksack would serve to carry his few possessions in. His hair was finally grown out, and his beard was full, dark ginger streaked with grey. He was no longer Ian MacLeod. He was John Watson. As a common name, it provided a certain level of anonymity.

He continued his ministrations, bandaging feet and handing out socks. He even cut the hair of a few men and encouraged them to go to the charity store for new shoes. Gradually, people got used to him, but they did not become any more talkative.

Sherlock stayed on his mind. In Watson’s memory, he was a sensitive, talented boy who was bullied by what passed for normal in school — ignorance, hatred of anyone different, the willingness to kill another’s spirit in order to put oneself ahead. He’d experienced that repeatedly in school, moving from foster home to foster home, learning to hold his own against all of the derision and drama kids loved so much. Remembering how they had surrounded Sherlock like a pack of hyenas, he felt angry at all the adults who hadn’t seen what was going on. People were ignorant, and paraded their ignorance as if it were virtue.

He remembered the beautiful boy and his violin, the fantasies he had woven around that image, and how it had carried him through the worst of his youth. The man, now grown, was breathtaking. Not conventionally handsome, he had a kind of alien beauty that went through Watson like an arrow. It was all he could do to hold his reserve as he looked into those pale eyes. Over the years, his sexual fantasies had always been of men; most often, he imagined those clear grey eyes, looking at him with desire. He’d imagined running his hands through those dark curls, down over a marble chest, muscular hips and thighs… and he remembered those long, clever fingers…

Lying in his blanket roll inside a tent made from trash bags and ragged tarps under the trees, he forced himself to stop thinking about Sherlock. They would not see one another again, at least not in the foreseeable future. What he needed to keep his focus on now was so perilous that he could not consider involving Sherlock.

He finally resorted to an old trick, listing multiples of nine, until he fell asleep.

 

In the morning, he found the veterans and shared breakfast with them. He’d found a few friends among them, not soldiers he’d known, but men who warmed to him when they learned of his service. They were probably his best lead, he decided, and spent more time with them. Everybody had a story to tell, and he was a good listener. Though he’d been working intelligence during his years in Afghanistan, he knew enough about what these men had been through to sympathise. He himself had been shot, and might have fallen, as they had, on returning to London.

In his former reality, he had been shot in the leg taking down Colonel Sebastian Moran, who was working a connection to human trafficking. Watson had rooted out his contacts in the native population and eliminated them, and ultimately confronted and killed the man. Moran’s attempt to kill him left him with a limp which he’d done his best to overcome. On returning to London, he’d been able to continue his work with Janacek.

He wondered often about the scar that now decorated his shoulder. He’d accessed his service record, which of course did not tell the entire story. The confrontation with Moran had left him nearly dead, he guessed. Perhaps Moran’s network was larger and better armed, or he had been less cautious. Or maybe it was just chance that caused the bullet to hit his shoulder, rather than his leg. He wondered if they had expected him to live. As he was undercover, he might have died on paper, at least, and they would never know.

“I heard a couple of blokes mention somebody called the Leader,” Watson said, keeping his voice low. “Do you know who that is?”

Nate and Eric exchanged glances. “Can’t talk about him,” said Nate, shaking his head vehemently.

Watson lowered his voice even more. “Please,” he said. “Please tell me.”

And they did. It was almost as if they needed to tell someone. They described the jobs they’d done for the Leader: the new arrivals, driven from Glasgow down to London in delivery vans; the big house, where children were sold for sex at parties frequented by rich men; the small corpses carefully hidden in a skip or a sewer.

“These houses, where the parties are held, does he own them?”

“No, they’re leased. That’s just where they move the merchandise,” said Eric. “They move it around so they don’t get caught.”

“And the Leader— he doesn’t show himself at the parties?”

“Nobody sees him. He stays at the compound.”

“The compound,” Watson said. “Where’s that?”

The two vets exchanged another look. _Fear._ “Never been there,” Nate said.

 

He positioned himself to help, moved in closer to the inner circle, the ones who circulated in the camps, recruiting drivers and guards, the ones who disposed of the tiny bodies in various skips around the city. It was whispered that the Leader suffered from terrible headaches. The voices tormented him. God asked so much of him, more than any human brain could endure.

Watson’s gift was relieving pain. One man had shoulder pain; Watson offered massage therapy. Another had terrible back pain; Watson’s hands knew how to realign his spine, remove the agony.

 

A day later he was treating an infected finger, a woman who had cut herself on a jagged tin. As he was bandaging the wound, she asked, “Did he send you here?”

“Who?”

“The Leader.”

_The Leader hears the voices_ , she told him. He looked out for them, and they did his bidding. _It’s a perfect world_ , she said. Not this one, but the next, she meant. _Blessed are the poor. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst. Suffer the little children. He leads us towards the light._

It made little sense, but finally he pieced it together. The Leader was using a cult as a cover for his criminal organisation, just as Janacek had suspected, a doomsday religion that used the refuse of society to do its work. Part of that work involved human trafficking, but there was much more going on. Drugs, prostitution, weapons.

All the evil things had flown out of the box.


	18. Evidence

“Hello, stranger.”

Sherlock was waiting for the elevator at Bart’s when he heard a familiar voice.

“Hello, Molly. How are you?”

“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

He smiled. “I was just coming to see you.”

“Do you have a few minutes?” she asked. “There’s something I’d like to share with you.” She looked around a bit nervously. Clearly, it wasn’t something she could talk about here. “We could get coffee…” She glanced at the shop across the street.

Possibly Molly had been in touch with Lestrade, he thought, about the evidence in the Morstan case. He could afford a few minutes to drink coffee and hear what she had to say.

Knowing that she would take a while to tell him what she wanted to say, he ordered a pastry and a large coffee with three sugars. She had a small coffee with milk.

“Let’s walk to the park,” she said. “I’d rather talk there.”

They settled on a bench. She seemed nervous, he thought. He’d known her a long time, but their relationship had not always been comfortable. It had taken him months to realise she was a friend. Now that he understood this, kindness came more easily to him. “How are your kitties?” he asked.

She smiled and began telling him about how the two older cats, Bear and Abby, were getting used to the kitten, whom she’d decided to name Lula. He let her show him pictures.

“Well,” she said, sighing a bit. “You know I didn’t invite you here to talk about my cats.”

“Something has happened,” he said.

“It’s odd,” she said after a long minute. “All the evidence I took from that woman’s body is gone.”

“Destroyed?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Someone came and took it away. A government fellow. He had ID, but it didn’t say what department.”

“You think he wasn’t actually a government fellow?”

“No, he was. It was a real ID. And your brother told me he would be coming.”

“Mycroft told you?”

“His assistant called me.” She sipped her coffee. “I’m not sure why he wanted me to know.”

He wasn’t sure, either. Mycroft didn’t generally let anyone know when his people were about to swoop in and take things. And he had warned Sherlock numerous times to stay away from the Morstan case. Unless… “You kept something.”

She smiled. “There was semen, you remember.”

“Had you run the DNA to find a match?”

“No match. We had a hair taken from the hat, but no follicle. I kept the profile, though. Lestrade was looking for the man on the CCTV. James Brooks.”

“James Brooks didn’t murder her. Lestrade has heard my reasoning on that.”

“I know. But he was having an affair with her, wasn’t he?”

“That doesn’t mean it’s his semen inside her. She was raped.”

Molly shrugged. “I ran it again this morning. There is a match now.”

“How did that happen?”

“The haematology lab called me, said a blood sample was awaiting processing, marked for my attention. They sent it up, I tested it, and they matched.”

“Where did it come from? Did you talk to the person who drew it?”

“Nobody knew. It was waiting when the lab opened. I think… I think the date had been changed. The blood had been frozen, too, so it could have been drawn days or weeks earlier.”

“Why wasn’t it processed the same day it was submitted?”

“I don’t know.”

“And who was the match? Was it, by any chance James Brooks?”

“No. It was somebody named John Watson.”

He controlled his face. “That’s a rather common name.”

She nodded and gave him a sidelong look. “What’s odd about it is that I just recently met a man named John Watson. We met here, on this very bench.”

“John Watson?” _He’d used his real name?_ “Tell me everything.”

“He was sitting right here, as I said. I was waiting for the bus, and I noticed him because he was sort of cute, but dressed like a homeless man. Unshaven, worn clothes, hat pulled down over his forehead.”

“Describe his physical appearance. Height, weight, etc.”

“About five-six, maybe 140 pounds. Blue eyes, blond hair, darker beard. Nice smile, good teeth. Looks like he works out, but not muscle-bound.”

“What drew your attention to him?”

“He was holding a cup of coffee, just sitting here, like he was daydreaming or trying to figure out a problem. Then he stood up to leave and tossed his cup at the bin, but it missed. Then he went pale and grabbed the back of the bench, sat back down. I came over to ask if he was all right. His eyes were closed and he looked faint. I took his pulse and it was fast. We sat and talked until his colour came back and his pulse slowed.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I told him I was a doctor, and he told me he was, too, and a veteran. He was working in the homeless camp, he said, which was why he looked so _disreputable_. He thought it was funny that I said he was nice, and he joked about how I would trust someone who looked like him. I thought he was flirting with me, so I was going to ask for his number, but before I could ask, he said he’d lost his phone. I guessed he wasn’t interested, you know, and he must have read my mind because he apologised. And I then I realised what it was.” She smiled.

“And?” he prompted. “What was it?”

She looked proud of herself. “He was gay.”

“He said he was gay?”

“I said it and he admitted it. I suppose it could have been an excuse. I’m still not very good at spotting if a man isn’t interested in women in general, or just me. I gave him my phone number, but I haven’t heard from him. Still, it’s only been a few days. Not even a week. Do you think it’s the same person?”

“Possibly.”

“Who is he?”

“He works with my brother. I believe someone is trying to frame him. That’s why the evidence disappeared.”

“Why did your brother warn me?”

“I don’t know. He could have deleted the profile when they took the other evidence, if he wanted to. That he left it is strange. Maybe a mistake.” He tried to remember the last time Mycroft had made a mistake. “You’ve told him this?”

“I was hoping you would. It’s weird, though. Lestrade doesn’t know anything about it. He would have called if he had. I don’t know where the blood came from, or why it was sent to me.”

“My guess is that neither the semen nor the blood are John Watson’s,” he said. But he had to admit that it made little sense. Perhaps it was a message for him, which is why it came to Molly. Someone knew that James Brooks was John Watson, and that Sherlock had been in touch with him. Someone was telling him, _I’m watching you._

Molly sighed. “I’m probably not supposed to have told you any of this. It’s just— nobody’s come asking about it. I deal with haematology all the time, and usually they’re breathing down my neck, but when I called and asked when they needed it, they didn’t know anything about it. I thought about telling Lestrade, since it relates to the Morstan case, but the Met if no longer on that. I thought I’d check with you, in case your brother told you something. If you think it’s important, will you let him know?”

“No worries. I’ll see what I can figure out.” He smiled. “You took a risk telling me this, knowing we’ve been ordered to stay away from the case. Thank you.”

She shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Letting you examine Mr Jones already has me involved. If I’m going to lose my job, it might as well be for something important.”

“You’re assuming that this is important.”

“Otherwise, you’d say it’s _boring._ The fact that you’re not letting go of it tells me that it’s something important.” She smiled. “Oh, one more thing. The sperm — it had been frozen as well.”

He stood to go, then, on sudden impulse, leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I’m lucky to have a friend like you, Molly.”

 

Lestrade called. “Body beside the tracks. Been dead a while.”

Needing a distraction, he went. They walked through the weeds beside the tracks until they reached a small group of uniforms and a few plainclothes cops. As he approached, they parted ranks and allowed Lestrade to lead him to the body.

“Female, age approximately forty,” he said. “Dyed blond hair. Cheap clothing.”

“She had a bit of cash in her jeans pocket,” said Donovan. “Shot in the head with a small caliber pistol and tossed off the train. Probably a prostitute.”

“But she wasn’t robbed,” Sherlock said. “Why?”

“Argument with her pimp?” suggested the sergeant.

Anderson showed them her arms. “Drug user.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Why was she even on a train?”

“Any ID?” Lestrade asked.

Donovan nodded. “Harriet MacLeod. Several arrests for prostitution.”

“MacLeod?” Lestrade frowned. “Any relatives?”

“A brother,” Sherlock said quietly. “But you won’t be able to reach him.”

 

The train trip out to the cemetery was longer than he remembered, nearly an hour. He might have taken a cab, but with Mycroft not responding to his texts and his bank account dwindling, he decided to be thrifty and ride the train. He had to take the Central Line all the way out to Wanstead, then a bus to the cemetery.

He walked through the medieval-looking arch and followed the path through the ancient grave markers, through two world wars, until he came to the newer section. He remembered exactly where the grave was, but found himself unsurprised when it wasn’t there. The spot where John Watson’s remains had rested was now occupied by Geraldine Palmer, 1898-1979.

He walked around the area for a while, looking for signs of recent activity. Finding none, he returned to the front gate and went into the building where records were kept.

“I’m looking for a grave,” he said. “John Watson. I expect you have several by that name. The one I’m looking for died May 31, 1985.”

The clerk shook his head. “Not here. Would you like me to search burial records for you?” 

“Please.” He waited while the man scrolled through all the John Watsons in all the cemeteries in the London area.

“I’m sorry,” the man said at last.

“Could his remains have been moved?”

“We would have a record of that. He hasn’t been here, I’m afraid.” The man smiled. “It’s quite a common occurrence, you know, that people forget—”

“Who might be able to alter a burial record?”

The man looked surprised. “No one. These are official records.”

Sherlock smiled. As if _official_ meant anything to Mycroft.

 

The Belstaff had become something of a trademark. Being recognisable had a few advantages, not the least of which was that it made going undercover easier. No one expected to see Sherlock Holmes strolling through the park in an old parka, tatty jeans, and dirty trainers. To cover his hair, he opted for a knit hat.

John Watson, homeless veteran, looked nothing like the dapper Dr Jensen or even the dishy massage therapist, Ian McLeod. Dirty blond hair hung almost to his shoulders; he was dressed much like Sherlock, in jeans, jumper, and a jacket, all probably obtained from a charity shop. He sat on a pile of newspapers, checking the feet of another man. Seeing Sherlock, he frowned.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The doctor looked up. “Afghanistan,” he said, and returned his attention to the foot before him. “No sign of infection. Keep it dry. Do you need clean socks?”

The man nodded, and the doctor pulled a pair from a rucksack and handed them to him. “Keep it clean and dry.”

_Scottish accent this time_ , Sherlock noted. _Glasgow_ , he thought. _Probably authentic_. He remembered that accent well, remembered hearing profanity pour out of that nine-year-old mouth.

Watson stowed away his medical supplies in the rucksack, ignoring Sherlock. There were no others waiting for his attention.

He decided to jump in with both feet. “Dr Borodin, I presume?”

The doctor looked up sharply. _Close to the edge. Something’s afoot, and he’s unnerved._

“What d’you want?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you that. I just want to let you know thatyou can trust me. I’ve spoken to Anthea, who naturally warned me off. But I figured out your code name all by myself. Russian composer— I should have guessed sooner, knowing my brother’s taste in music. Alexander is, of course, a very common name among Eastern Europeans, but it does narrow down the possibilities among composers. I would have taken you for a Tchaikovsky fan, myself. But Borodin fits well enough. Like you, he was a bastard. His mother was married to an army doctor. Not sure what his rank was. He studied chemistry—” Noticing Watson’s silence, he hesitated. “Well, erm. That is to say, your secret is safe with me.”

Watson sighed and rubbed his beard. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

He smiled faintly. “We’re together, you know. On the same team, as it were.”

“I work alone.”

“I know. Anthea warned me.”

“Then why are you here? Jesus, Sherlock. Your brother will kill me. And I do mean that literally. He was quite clear about it. Chewed my arse. Knowing me puts you in danger, and he won’t stand for that.”

“Mycroft would never kill you. You’re about the closest thing to a friend he has.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Watson opened a bottle of water and took a swallow. “People like us don’t have friends.”

“No? I disagree. I would even go so far as to say that Mycroft loves you. Platonically, of course. As a mentor loves his protege. As a brother in arms.”

“He’s concerned about you. I’m a dangerous man to know right now. You need to heed Anthea and stay away. Sitting here, in public like this— Christ. People are after me, Sherlock, and they’re willing to kill people I care about in order to get my attention. The woman in the hotel, we were lovers. Nothing romantic, but I cared about her. The same thing could happen to you. I couldn’t… I don’t think… Fuck. I should never have gone to you. This can’t end well.”

Sherlock frowned, stared at John Watson, who seemed quite animated on the subject. “You care about me.”

Watson drew a shaky breath. “You mean more to me than I can explain. If anything should happen to you—”

“I love you, John,” he said quietly.

Watson closed his eyes, breathing heavily. “This is not the time or place to say such things.”

“But it’s true. And you love me.”

Eyes still closed, Watson nodded. When he opened them, they glittered with tears.

“I have news,” Sherlocksaid abruptly, shifting his gaze from Watson to the edge of the clearing where they stood. “I’m sorry I’m not better at this, but you deserve to know. Your sister is dead.” He looked up then, to take in his reaction.

Watson was silent, his face still. His eyes fell shut again, and he shook his head slowly. “I think I already knew. She was supposed to call, never did. What was it?”

There was no purpose in softening the truth. Watson was not fragile; he would appreciate bluntness. “Shot in the head, pushed from a train.”

At this information, Watson’s eyes overflowed. For a few minutes, he sat, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Sherlock didn’t touch him. Finally he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Poor Harry.” He stood, facing Sherlock. “At least she didn’t suffer. Not this time.”

“No, she didn’t.” It seemed like small comfort to offer.

Watson’s face filled with sudden anger. “Do you see? Do you understand why we can’t— Jesus.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “I don’t want you to die, Sherlock. Please. I would rather never see you again, never speak to you, never—” His voice broke a bit. “I wish things were different. This is no fucking game we’re playing. It’s a losing game, and I can’t afford to lose you. I simply can’t. Damn! Fucking Moriarty.”

“Who’s Moriarty?” he asked, suddenly alert. _The cabbie,_ he thought. _That’s what he said._

Watson started. “Forget I said that. Go now. Don’t come looking for me again.” He stood, preparing to go.

“John.”

“Leave,” he said, his voice harsh. “I can’t—”

“You said something the other night, when we talked. _Maybe in some other reality, I died. But I’m here now._ You mentioned a tunnel. What did you mean?”

“I can’t explain it,” Watson replied, his voice softer. “It’s just this: I was on a train. It stopped. I got out, found an abandoned tunnel, climbed a rickety stairway to street level. After that, things changed. Reality changed. Little things, but they add up. This is a different reality. Believe it or not. Doesn’t make sense, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Where was this tunnel?”

“Somewhere below Russell Square Station.”

He nodded. “Is it still there?”

“I haven’t looked.” Watson shook his head. “I found you here. I don’t know how these things work, but I wasn’t about to go back, even if it gets me killed. Losing you would be worse.”

Sherlock suddenly pulled him close and kissed him. Watson did not resist. “Sherlock,” he moaned. “Oh, God. This can’t be. We can’t—”

“You saved my life, John,” he whispered. “Maybe now I can save yours.”

Before he could give himself a chance to change his mind, Sherlock broke the embrace, forced himself to turn and walk away. At the edge of the clearing, he turned back for a last look, but Watson had already gone.


	19. Hades

“They say you know how to fix people.” Moran was speaking. Sebastian Moran, the same corrupt army colonel Watson once killed in Afghanistan, firing the perfect shot into Moran’s forehead even after Moran’s bullet hit him in the leg. Evidently he didn’t kill Moran in the Q-axis. And while Watson’s shot must have gone awry, Moran’s shot had found his shoulder, a much worse wound for a doctor to suffer. Moran was the Leader’s second-in-command in this world. And evidently he hadn’t recognised Watson with his beard, his long hair, and his thick Scottish accent. A good shot, but a lesser intelligence.

“Massage therapy,” he told Moran. “Licensed in physio and acupuncture as well.”

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

And, just like that, he was being taken to the Leader.

 

They blindfolded him, put him in the back of a van. He estimated the drive time at less than two hours. Of course, they could have been driving around the M25 for most of that time, waiting for him to become disoriented. He noticed when they slowed, stopped, started again, how long they drove, the sounds… and finally lost track of where he might possibly be.

When the van stopped and the blindfold was removed, it was night. Men carrying guns eyed him with curiosity as he climbed out. Too dark for him to see much, he took in the smells. Rural, he thought, grass, trees, mould and loam. Maybe south or east of the city. Not that it would do him any good to know exactly where he was. He wouldn’t be walking back to London.

He was placed in a small room with a mattress, a sink, and a toilet. A cell. The door was closed and he heard a deadbolt slide into place. He was a prisoner. There was no window in the room, but after some time had passed, he fell asleep. When he woke, he saw a tray of food by the door, beans, toast, and a cup of tea gone cold. He ate.

He fell asleep again, waking up only when someone shook his shoulder, a gun holstered at his side. An older man with grey hair and a worn face stood looking down at him. The face looked familiar, even after so many years. Cigarettes had added lines to it, and alcohol had bloated it. Prison had hardened his expression. _Hamish MacLeod._

“Get up,” he said, prodding Watson. “Leader’s ready to see you.”

He rose and slipped his shoes on. “What’s your name?”

“No talking,” the man said. He licked his lips nervously.

“Sorry,” Watson said. All the things he had thought of over the years, all the abusive, angry accusations he had imagined aiming at this face — he simply could not find words to say to the man before him. Life had already done him in, repaid him for his sins. _Does he know who I am?_ He stood up and faced the man. “I’m Ian.”

“I know who you are,” Hamish growled.

_No, you don’t,_ Watson thought. _I’m not who you tried to make me. Not like you. You don’t have any notion of who I am._ He shrugged and walked out of the room ahead of his father. _Maybe that’s a good thing._

 

It had been night when he arrived, so he hadn’t gotten a good look at his surroundings. Now he found himself inside a compound surrounded by a wrought-iron fence topped with barbed wire. Rural, then. It might have been an old estate. Within the grounds, there were cottages, a big house, and what appeared to be a stable.

Hamish led him towards the large house, stopped and spoke briefly to another armed man, who nodded at Watson and said, “You’re coming with me.”

They made their way into the dark courtyard. Two guards, one with a buzzcut, the other with dark hair drawn into a ponytail, were talking to Hamish now. Late thirties, both of them, with the hardened expressions Watson had observed on many petty criminals. These were men who were paid not to think, to be loyal and cruel. They would obey their Leader, would not hesitate to do anything he asked.

Ponytail remained silent, his eyes on Watson. He seemed somewhat younger than Buzzcut, now that Watson studied him. Taller, leaner than his companion, with a look in his eyes that was both disturbing and naive. A bit of a psycho, he decided. Buzzcut looked military, probably non-com. He might be reasoned with, Watson decided, but Ponytail was stupid and dangerous.

The old man left; Watson watched him cross the compound towards one of the cottages.

“This way,” Buzzcut said.

It wasn’t huge, as manor houses go. Nothing fancy about it, just an early eighteenth-century house that might have once held the family of a country squire. Dark woodwork, small windows, narrow stairways, creaking floors. In his mind, he tried to go to the spacious house where he had imagined growing up with Sherlock. He drew a deep breath. _Don’t run away. Stay alert._

Buzzcut led the way up the stairs, down a dimly-lit hallway. Ponytail followed behind Watson. They stopped outside a closed door. Buzzcut turned and regarded Watson dispassionately, his look seeming to say how easy it would be to shoot him if he made even a small misstep.

“Understand that you are about to meet the Leader. He is a great man, and you will treat him with respect. We will be right outside of the door. If Leader calls for us, we will not need to ask what he wants. We will simply shoot you. Do you understand?”

Watson nodded. The door was opened and he was ushered into what felt like complete and impenetrable darkness. He heard the lock turn behind him and looked around, trying to see something, anything. He could sense that another person was there, watchful. Eyes accustomed to darkness were scanning him, studying his posture, his movement, listening to the quickness of his breath.

“You are a healer,” a musical voice said. _Irish accent. Moriarty._

“Yes. Massage therapy.” His voice sounded ragged, unnerved.

Now he could see that the figure was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor.

“And acupuncture, I think,” the voice said. “I believe you _healed_ Mr Jones. And then you sent him along to the next world.” He gave a high giggle. Watson shivered. “I shall call you Hermes, the _psychopomp_ , the one who leads souls from this world to the next. Not judging them. Just guiding them.”

Watson nodded but said nothing.

“That would be rather interesting, don’t you think?” The Leader shifted slightly on his seat. “Not merely seeing the next world. The walk to get there would be, I imagine, breathtaking.” He sighed, smiling. “And the looks on their faces.” He said this in a tone which meant _you understand. You and I, we understand one another._ A dangerous man.

Watson could see better now. The man was about forty, he guessed, with dark hair slicked back from a high forehead. “How can I help you?” he asked, keeping his voice level..

The Leader exhaled deeply. “I have headaches, crippling pain whose only benefit is that it allows me to learn things denied to ordinary people. Pain is the price I pay for wisdom. It is a great gift, to hear the voices, but recently the pain has become worse, and the voices have fallen silent.”

The man spoke with an almost poetic intonation. Watson did not reply. Whatever else the Leader might be, he was quite possibly psychotic, and with an armed man standing outside the door, anything the man might say could give them a reason to shoot Watson. He remained silent, waiting. _Silence puts you in control. Talk, and you give yourself away, bit by bit._

The Leader rose gracefully to his feet. “The voices deny me,” he said, stepping towards Watson. “They punish me, withholding answers. Drugs do not work. My mind must be clear in order to hear their words.” He circled around Watson, who stood motionless, his dark eyes studying his face. “You possess the caduceus. Restore my mind. End my pain.”

_Caduceus?_ “How did you hear of me?”

“I’ve known about you for a long time. The voices told me. I’ve been waiting for you, knowing that you would eventually seek me out.”

This did not really answer the question, but Watson decided to pretend that he understood.“Right. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions? That’s how I ordinarily begin a session.”

“I will allow it.” The Leader stood directly in front of him now, close enough for Watson to smell his aftershave. He was slightly taller than Watson, who raised his chin to look into the dark eyes. The man smiled down at him. “You’re not in awe of me, are you?”

“I know that you’re a man,” Watson said. “Like other men, you’re mortal. I cannot fear what I understand. All men die.”

Moriarty smiled sweetly. “At times I feel that I might walk between worlds, as you do, Hermes. But I am Hades. I cannot die because _I am Death_.” He sighed. “Ask me your questions.”

He had his patient sit on the therapy table. Pulling up a chair, he asked what he always asked, questions designed to rule out allergies, disease, and other causes of pain. The Leader answered him without elaboration or interest.

“When did you first hear the voices?”

“I was seventeen, at Oxford. Mathematics was my field of study. I am a genius, you know. I started there when I was fourteen, and had nearly finished my PhD by seventeen. But then I realised that all the universe can be reduced to an equation, and if I could just solve this one equation, I would understand everything. I worked on it day and night until my mind was exhausted. I could not sleep. It tormented me that I could not see the solution.” He looked at Watson. “Can you understand that? You may travel between worlds, Hermes, but your mind does not comprehend the immensity of those worlds. You do not see how all of our actions travel into infinity.” He looked expectantly at Watson. “Do you understand?”

“Infinity, you say.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Immortality. Do keep up, Hermes.”

“You are… immortal?”

“The voices have promised. They want me to solve the equation. I am the only one that can do so, which is why they chose me. The time that it will take is incalculable, as is time itself. The ordinary mind cannot grasp eternity as I do. I will transcend time. But there are still things to be done before that can be achieved. That is why you will heal me.”

Though he did not want to, he felt some pity for this man. “What things? What do you have to do to become immortal?”

He looked at Watson, smiling a bit sadly. “Not all are worthy, you know. But I will bring those who are worthy with me. My suffering will liberate the children, and they will be worthy.”

“Did the voices tell you to sell the children?”

“Suffer the children,” the Leader intoned. “The more one suffers in this world, the greater will be the reward in the next. This world is very corrupt. You, of all beings, must recognise the corruption of this world. I am in exile here, after all. Death is the goal, and the reward.” The madman looked at Watson with curiosity. “You want your life to have meaning. Do you know what the meaning of life is?”

He could think of no reply. “Tell me.”

“No one knows. It is the last equation. If you solve that, the world ends.” His eyes closed for a minute. He breathed deeply. “I am ready to begin.”

He directed the man to lie on his stomach with his head in the face rest. The routine he used was designed for people with neck and shoulder problems, which often lead to headaches. For all his insane talk, the man’s neck was quite tense. Perhaps it did not matter what one’s line of work was; even delusions could make demands. Watson worked at the stiff muscles, gradually relaxing them.

As he went through the familiar manipulations, he thought about how to find Janacek. He was convinced that he was here, being held somewhere. It was just a gut feeling, but his intuitions were generally accurate. As Jan had said, _I trust your instincts more than other men’s facts._ If he could find him, then the problem would be escape. Moriarty had already guessed that he was the hotel assassin. He hoped that he would not think him more than a man hired for one job, a hired killer. If he knew what he really was, and what Janacek was, they were dead men.

_You’re too impulsive, Alex,_ he heard Janacek say. They’d had this conversation numerous times. Jan was both careful and cunning; he knew how to land on his feet. He measured risk and evaluated potential damage as easily as he selected a tie to match whatever suit he wore. Watson would be the one to land wrong-footed, he’d always assumed, to be captured, to need rescue, and Janacek would be the one to clean up his mess. Now, it seemed, they were both in a mess with no clear way out.

Moriarty was silent, breathing evenly, but not so deeply that he might be asleep. “How do you feel?” Watson asked quietly.

“My pain is gone,” the Leader replied. “Knock twice on the door and the guard will let you out.”

 

After three days of giving Leader therapy, the summonses abruptly stopped. He did not know whether Moriarty had left, or whether he did not need Watson’s services. He spent hours in his cell, just thinking.

Perhaps Moriarty intended to keep him for his skills, the way one might purchase a piece of exercise equipment or an appliance. It worried him that his muscles were not getting enough use, but there was no one to whom he might explain this. Pacing around his small space helped, but he desperately needed to keep himself strong. Should the opportunity for escape present itself, he would need to be ready.

Even if he was physically strong, he needed help, but being kept in the small cell limited his opportunities. The only person he ever saw was Hamish, who continued bringing his food twice a day, but never seemed inclined to chat. Perhaps he could give the man a reason to talk to him.

When he came to remove the dishes and replace the towels, John spoke. “Harry’s dead.”

The look on Hamish’s face told him that he knew. “Yeah.”

“Did they tell you what they did to her?”

He shrugged. “I don’t ask questions.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but Watson heard the hesitation.

“Did you know what had happened to me?”

“They took you away, put you in foster care. I looked, but they’d changed your name.” He shrugged. “Didn’t matter. They’d already turned you against me.”

“How long were you in prison?”

“Ten years.”

“And then you came to work for Moriarty. Sorry, _Leader._ And you believe him?”

Hamish snorted. “It’s just another scheme. More clever than most.” His face shuttered then. Perhaps he realised that he’d already said too much.

“You’re a prisoner, too,” Watson said.

Hamish shrugged. “It’s a living.”

“I can get you out, if you want.”

The man laughed. “You’re going nowhere, boy. As soon as the Leader’s done with you, you’re dead.”

A lifetime of reading faces, of fitting himself into any situation and exploiting it came to his aid. In the bitter twist of the man’s mouth as he said _you’re dead,_ Watson read a possibility.

“You’ve done your time, Da,” he said. “You don’t owe anything.”

“Not even to you?”

Watson’s smile was thin. “People took care of me. I got an education and made a life for myself. You couldn’t have given me any of that. So you shouldn’t feel guilty that you didn’t try.”

The old man was silent for a long time. “I wanted to, though. I could have tried, if they’d let me. But then— they took you away. And everything went to hell.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve been through,” he said quietly, “but if you want to die knowing you tried, there is something you can do for me.”

Hamish’s eyes opened wide at the word _die._ Then his expression hardened and he gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I know. Only a matter of time. Soon. But there’s no way out of here. You’ll die, too, if I try to get you out.”

“I’m not asking you to do that. I can get myself out if you do something for me. There’s a man being held here. I don’t know where, but I’m sure he’s here. Tall, ginger-haired, receding hairline.”

“How do you know that?” Hamish looked genuinely surprised.

“It’s true, innit? He’s here. You’ve seen him. He’s my… friend. I came here to find him, but locked in this cell, I can’t look for him. But you know where he is, don’t you?”

Slowly, Hamish nodded.

“Give me a layout of the compound. If you take me to him, leave the door unlocked, I can get us out of here.” He wasn’t so sure about it, but he had to try. “Look, we can make it look like I jumped you, took your gun. I’ll knock you out—”

“No, lad,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll shoot me. If you don’t, it’ll mean a lot more pain for me. Just put a bullet to my head, Ian.”

Hearing his birth name in the mouth of the old man unexpectedly jolted Watson. He tried to remember a happy moment in his childhood, where he might have heard a younger Hamish MacLeod say _Ian_ , but the only memory he could recall was vague. They were at the seashore, he thought. Maybe at Stornoway. He was running along the shore, into the waves and then back out as he felt the back flow tug at his feet. Further into the water each time, shrieking as the waves pulled him harder. Finally a hand grabbed his. _Not so far, Ian. Hold my hand._

For years, he’d hated his father. Now, given permission, he wasn’t sure he could do it.

But he had to find Janacek.

“Take me to him.”

 

He heard Hamish making an excuse for his delay to another guard as he walked across the yard “Pissed all over the floor. Had to make him clean it up.” As evidence, he showed him the stack of towels, now soaked with water from the loo. “Now I gotta get fresh towels.”

“Why bother, if he’s going to be like that?” the other voice replied. “Let him live in his own filth.”

“They told me. Fresh towels every day.”

It was a half an hour before he returned with a stack of clean towels. After laying them on the bed, he motioned to Watson. “‘Mon ‘en.”

Silently they crossed the yard. The moon was just a narrow sliver, barely enough to light the way. Watson’s training kicked in; he found his bearings and learned his surroundings quickly.

At another building, Hamish took out a key and opened the door. Watson slipped in after him. On the narrow bed lay a man, tall and thin.

“Jan?” he whispered.

The man sat up. “Alex? You shouldn’t have come. Didn’t you get my message?” He tried to sit, but flinched. He was wearing a blood-stained shirt and torn trousers.

Watson sat down at his side and began unbuttoning the shirt. “Are you all right? Let me examine you.”

“You’re a fool, Alex.” Janacek smiled. “I’m happy to see you, but this won’t end well. Anthea should have warned you.” He looked appraisingly at Hamish, who was standing just inside the door.

Watson shook his head, holding Janacek’s wrist between his fingers. “How many days have you been here?”

“Maybe a week. They drugged me at first, so I’m not sure.”

Watson’s checked his eyes. “Any wounds?”

“They were a bit rough, but no broken bones.” He carefully turned, lifting the tail of his shirt. “Contusions here, on my back.”

“What’s this?” Watson began to peel back a gauze bandage. “Jan— you’ve been stabbed.”

“Shallow,” the older man said, shrugging. “A bit of a scuffle when they took me. They’ve changed the bandage daily, so I assume they mean to keep me alive, at least for the time being.”

“What happened?”

He sighed. “I was posing as a customer, at one of their _parties,_ tracing the supply line. Someone there identified me. He has a lot of tentacles, this Leader.”

The wound was red and felt warm to the touch. “Looks infected, Jan.”

Hamish shifted nervously. “If you two are done chatting, maybe we could finish this.”

“What’s the plan?” Janacek looked from Hamish to Alex. “I assume there is one. I don’t fancy bargaining with Moriarty. Madmen don’t negotiate.”

“Hamish can show us to the fence,” Watson said. “There’s a gate in the back, on the woods side. We’ll have to climb through some barbed wire after we get out, but that doesn’t seem as hazardous as staying here will be. Can you walk?”

“I can. But there are always people about.”

“Not tonight,” said Hamish. “Moriarty’s gone. Been away a few days. Took a bunch of lads with him.”

 

Getting to the outer fence took about fifteen minutes. The open space they had to cross was the most dangerous part; once they got to the trees, it began to feel safer. Watson supported his partner, who was clearly in pain.

“If things go badly,” Janacek gasped, “your survival is the priority.”

“Bollocks. I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not wounded. Run if you get the chance. I’m serious, Alex.”

Watson gritted his teeth. “I’m getting you out of here. Just a bit further.”

“Gate’s up ahead,” Hamish said. “I don’t have a key, so you’ll have to go over it, but it’s free of barbed wire. Once you’re outside, there will be several barriers. There’s also a few places where you can take cover and not be seen.”

“I don’t think I can climb,” Janacek said, panting. “I’ll slow you down.”

Watson noticed that blood had seeped through the gauze, darkening his shirt. Whatever healing the wound had done, it had ripped open again. _Not shallow, then_. “I’ll boost you over. I’ll be right behind you and can carry you until we get to a road.” He wished he had a phone. It might be miles before they came to a safe place.

“Alex.” The older man sank to his knees. “It’s too far. We’re miles from anywhere.”

“Then I’ll conceal you somewhere until—” Watson knelt, holding his friend’s face. It was too dark to see his expression, but he knew from his voice that his face would show only calm determination.

“The dogs will find me.”

“I can save you.” He pulled the man close. “Don’t. Just… don’t. Don’t die, Jan.”

“That’s the one thing I cannot promise, my dear friend,” he said. “We have both known the risks all along. Do you remember what I said to you when I hired you?”

Watson snorted. “No retirement plan.”

“You have a gift, Alex. You can make it out of here, bring the organisation down.” He breathed heavily. “But not with me. This is our work, everything that matters to us. Don’t let sentiment get in the way of that. You must get away.”

“Not leaving you.”

“There is something I must say. Perhaps it will change your mind. You must bring a message to someone for me. A personal message.”

“A personal message,” he repeated. “To Sherlock?”

“To him,” Janacek said, gasping a bit. “And to my wife.”

“Wife?” He sat on his heels, looking at the man he thought he knew better than any other man. “You’re married?”

The older man chuckled. “Even Sherlock doesn’t know. Will you promise?”

He nodded. “Of course. It’s just— where can I find her?” He’d never seen any evidence that Janacek did not live alone. The only person besides Geoffrey he’d ever seen there— except for the one time Sherlock appeared— was— “Anthea?”

“We were partners. It’s why we hired you, Alex. We simply could not work with each other that way, in the field. Too much—” he coughed and waved his hand vaguely, “—sentiment. Make the wrong decision, more worried about each other than…” He sighed, his breathing laboured. “She agreed to be my handler. And I selected you as her replacement. A brilliant choice, if I do say so myself. And now you…” He smiled. “Perhaps I’m sentimental about you as well.”

“What is the message?” he asked, certain that he already knew.

“Take care of Sherlock. He’s a reckless idiot all too often and needs someone to keep him out of trouble. Anthea has always helped me manage him. Mr Lestrade has been useful in that regard as well. Now, perhaps, you will see to that, with their help. Team Sherlock.” He smiled. “I think he might actually listen to you.”

“Of course. You don’t even have to ask.”

“Tell them both that I love them. That I am happy to have met my end this way, doing what matters most to me. I love them both.” He laid his hand on Watson’s face. “And you as well, dear boy. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re not going to die,” he said. “You’ll tell them yourself. And then you’ll take Anthea on a well-deserved holiday. Somewhere warm. Maybe Greece.” He was babbling now to cover his emotions.

“We’re not exactly holiday people,” Jan said, smiling. “Too much leisure—”

“Then a safari, or Antarctica, or the Himalayas, or—”

“Shh.” Hamish motioned for them to lie on the ground. A lantern cast its light over their heads just as they ducked down.

“How touching.” Moriarty stepped out of the trees. Moran, holding the lantern, was at his side. “I always hate goodbyes. So emotional.”


	20. The Curtain Rises

Talking to Watson had not lessened any of Sherlock’s foreboding. In fact, it had fanned his nerves into such a conflagration of anxiety that he found it almost impossible to sleep. When he did sleep (rarely), he dreamed, wandering through unfamiliar streets that were so dark, they might have been underground. Then he would find himself in a building, walking down unlit corridors lined with doors— a hotel, perhaps. Sometimes, as he made his way through that dimness, seeking some hidden destination, he thought he sensed someone else, someone who followed, resting when he rested, moving when he did. Not a person, but a presence. Some _thing_. He could not define it, but it seemed to be watching him. He felt it. And then it would leave, not through a door or even a window. It just gradually faded away, as if it had seen all it needed to see and lost interest. Its absence left a cold chill behind.

He had the underground train dream several times. In the logic of dreams, it made a kind of sense: he was hunting for Watson’s abandoned tunnel. In the dream, he was on the train, going from car to car, looking for John, not finding him. Each car was empty of passengers. _Where are you?_ he called. And he thought he heard a voice distantly replying. He could not make out words, but felt that John was worried, even distraught. If only the train would stop, he could get off and find him.

He also had realistic dreams, where everything was so normal that he was certain he was awake. Then he would actually wake up, unable to tell whether he was awake or asleep. In these dreams, he often felt as he had the night of the storm, when he was with John, where the line between what was real and what was impossible had blurred. He would look at the clock and try to go back to sleep, but always ended up going into the other room and sitting in his chair. He would read _The Elephant Vanishes_ , the book he had stolen from John’s flat. _To Alex._

In that book, he read one story about a woman who could not sleep. _Her fingertips were just barely brushing against the outermost edge of sleep_ as the sun rose each morning. She was groggy during the day, like sleep-walking, but gradually got used to not sleeping. At night, while her husband slept, she drank brandy, ate chocolate, and read _Anna Karenina._ Sherlock had read _War and Peace_ a long time ago; that experience had taught him that he disliked Tolstoy. Every night he would read that story about the woman insomniac, and think he was awake, in his chair, reading. Every morning he work up in his bed, unable to remember the ending of the story. He suspected it was different every time he read it, that it had blended into the dreams he could not remember.

He could not remember what day it was. He felt weary all the time.

Had Mycroft visited, he would have suspected drugs. Sherlock would not have blamed him for thinking that. Though he had never been more sober in his life, he was acting like an addict in a hopeless spiral of withdrawal and indulgence. He felt as if he was losing his mind.

 _I need a case,_ he told himself. _It’s just boredom._

 

At around four o’clock one afternoon, he heard the buzzer downstairs. Most people weren't off work yet, so it was probably a salesperson or a bill collector. The buzzing was loud and persistent, as if the personality of the individual whose finger was on the buzzer was being conducted through the wiring of the building. He ignored it. Aside from Mycroft, only Lestrade ever came to see him, and he always texted first. After several prolonged, angry buzzes, the noise stopped.

He had just settled back into an article on facial recognition technology when a new sound began. Now someone was knocking, not downstairs, but at the door of his flat.

Not possible. Sometimes people were let into the building by careless tenants on their way in or out, but he hadn't heard the door open or close after the buzzing. From his flat, the sound of the vestibule door banging shut was always audible; the door closer was not operating properly and the landlord too lazy to fix it. There was no other way into the building.

The knocking continued. Sherlock, sitting in his chair with a stack of journals in his lap, did not move or make a sound. He had no intention of opening the door. He didn’t know who it was and hated talking to strangers. After a few minutes, there was a pause. Then the person outside the door resumed knocking.

He could not say why, but this filled him with dread. It was obviously no one he knew, but the fact that whoever it was had circumvented the vestibule security suddenly made him hope that Anthea was watching the closed circuit cameras in the corridor. Doubtless she had better things to do, but at that moment, he felt quite alone, even exposed, and would have welcomed an extra set of eyes outside his door.

Perhaps the person had come from one of the other flats. A couple rentals were vacant, he thought. If someone had gotten into the building earlier, they might have broken into an empty flat and camped out there, waiting for an opportunity.

He could see that the door was bolted.

The knocking escalated. Now the unknown person was pounding.

He had no gun, not even a knife beyond what was in his cutlery drawer. He might have yelled through the door, telling the person to go away, but the fist sounded determined, almost argumentative. He didn’t feel like arguing.

 _Foolish notion_ , he thought. A door buzzer or a fist knocking could not have personality. His imagination, on edge since the night Watson had spent here, seemed to be running away with his reason.

“Mr Scott,” a voice said. “William Scott, I know that you're in there.”

The name on his postal box in the lobby was _S Holmes_. There was no postal box with the label Scott. That was one of his names, though he only ever used it when he didn't want to use his real name. The fact that William was his actual first name made it alarming that the knocker had guessed both correctly. He tried to remember when he'd last used an alias. Not for months, he thought, and it hadn't been William Scott that time.

“William Scott, I know you don't want to see me, but it's important.”

He said nothing, hoped that his heart wasn't hammering as loudly as it felt.

The knocking stopped. “Mr Scott, you have not so many friends, have you? In fact, we might count your friends on the fingers of just one hand. Is that not so?”

He held his breath, did not reply.

“Oh, you’re wondering why I keep talking to your door when you keep ignoring me. The thing is, I can tell you’re in there.”

Looking towards the curtains, he saw that the shades were pulled down to the sill, the curtains drawn around the sides. Light could escape, making it obvious that he was at home, but he was quite sure that no one could see his silhouette from the street.

“Yes, I know you’re at home. And you’re alone tonight, aren’t you? Not entertaining any _friends_ tonight, are you? I suppose you believe that _alone protects you_.”

There was another pause. The knocking resumed. It went on for a good minute, according to the mantle clock. It stopped then, and the voice spoke once more. “What’s happened to your little boyfriend? Did he already abandon you? That’s a shame.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. The voice was not familiar, but it felt sinister. Soft, almost lilting. A bit of an accent.

“Such a shame,” the voice repeated. “Just when you finally realised that he _didn’t_ _die.”_

Biting his tongue to keep from speaking, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath.

“Well, I’ll be going now,” the voice said, resigned. “Sorry we didn’t get to have a real chat, Sherlock.”

He almost fell out of his chair.

“Yes, I know your real name, Mr Holmes. Have a pleasant evening. See you soon.”

 

He sat in his chair for what might have been an hour. Finally, his breathing slowed and he allowed himself to get up and walk to the door. He peered through the peephole, but saw no one in the corridor. Cautiously, he opened the door, half-expecting someone to jump out and grab him.The person, his visitor, had left no evidence of his presence. Perhaps, he thought, the landlord would let him see the security footage.

“Camera doesn’t work,” the man from the management office informed him. “When did you say this happened?”

“About four this afternoon.”

“Who did he say he was?”

“He didn’t. But he got through the security door downstairs.”

“And you didn’t open your door to see who it was?”

“No,” he admitted. It sounded silly now to say that he hadn’t even gotten a look at the fellow. “You need to get your cameras fixed,” he said. “He might have been in one of the empty flats. You need to make sure you don’t have any squatters.”

“I’ll check. Let me know if he comes back,” the man said. “Maybe you could get a look at him.”

 

He busied himself with cleaning his flat, an activity that rarely engaged him. The truth was that he was simply too antsy to focus on an experiment or catch up on his reading. He went out to the store once, and on another day walked to the park and tried to work off some anxiety, but each time he returned to the flat, he felt uneasy, as if someone might have been there, even though he’d locked his door and made sure the windows were latched as well. No evidence that the lock had been picked. The powder he put on the window sills was undisturbed.

The landlord stopped by while he was out one day, left a note saying that only one flat was empty, and there was no sign that anyone had been in it. The other flats were all occupied by people who’d been there over a year. 

Sometimes he felt followed, sensed the scopes of several guns on him. _I’m becoming paranoid,_ he told himself. His paranoia might be mostly self-generated, he knew, but that didn’t change the fact that someone might be following him.

 _People are after me_ , Watson had said. _A losing game._

 

Exhausted, he lay in bed, willing himself to fall asleep. He thought of John, focusing on every detail of the night they had been together, but found himself imagining scenarios— John in danger, John shot, captured—

 _Be safe,_ he said silently. _Stay safe until we can find one another again. I will wait for you. I love you…_ the repetition calmed him.

He had just begun to drift off when he heard someone at his door, knocking. He hadn’t heard the vestibule door bang. Startled, he sat up and grabbed his dressing gown, wrapping it around himself with shaking hands. He instinctively knew that it was the same person.

 _When had Sherlock Holmes become such a oversensitive, namby-pamby coward?_ He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but felt paralysed.

The knocking continued. He did not move.

“Mr Holmes, I know you’re not sleeping,” the voice said. “I think we should talk.”

He kept silent. After a moment, he lowered his feet to the floor, making sure the bed did not creak. He held his breath and waited.

The knocking resumed. “Why won’t you talk to me?” Even through two doors, the voice sounded near.

He crept noiselessly to the door of his bedroom and listened for a moment. Silence. He turned the knob slowly, silently, and eased it open. From here he could see across his small sitting room to the door of the flat. The light in the corridor was on; there was no shadow outside his door.

“Mr Holmes, why do you play this foolish game?” the voice asked suddenly. “You act like I’m a debt collector or someone who’s come to serve you a summons. I assure you, I have no interest in your financial affairs. I only want to talk to you.”

As he maintained his silence, the man resumed knocking.

“You see, Mr Holmes, I can keep knocking on your door all night. You can’t ignore me forever.”

The knocking continued for what felt like hours, but was probably more like three minutes. He wondered why the other tenants had not opened their doors to see what was happening. “You’re standing on the other side of this door,” the voice said. “Standing there in the dark, hoping I’ll go away.”

He wanted to speak, to scream, but his voice was frozen in his throat.

The knocking finally ended. “Look, Mr Holmes. I’l leave now. Obviously you’re not going to open the door. But we’ll be in touch. There’s a game I’d like to play with you. Much more entertaining than this foolishness.”

He waited. The silence dragged out, but no shadow moved in the corridor outside of his door. He heard no footsteps, no floorboards creak. After ten minutes had passed, he took a step towards the door, still silent on bare feet.

“Did you think I’d gone?” The voice chuckled. “All right, I’m telling the truth this time. I’m leaving. But soon, very soon, you’ll hear from me. You’re going to _love_ my game.”

He waited a half an hour before he moved again. This time, the voice was really gone. He did not open the door, but quickly made for his bed and collapsed. He did not sleep.

 

John Watson was right: the danger was real. His mind was full of amorphous fears. He texted Mycroft a few times, but there was no reply. As much as he always hated his brother’s meddling in his life, he would have welcomed a visit now, if only to see the posh git sitting in the other chair in a bespoke suit, his umbrella at his side, telling him _you’re an idiot, little brother._

Lestrade would have laughed at him. How could he tell Lestrade he’d been threatened by a voice at his door, when he had refused to open it and face the one making the threats? His sudden timidity was not only embarrassing, it was also completely uncharacteristic.

Nothing happened for a week after the last visit of the knocker. He slept at odd hours, did not leave the flat.

 _Moriarty_ , he thought.

 

He finally went out, just for a change of scenery. He walked twice around the park, reasoning that the fresh air would clear his head and the exercise might make him sleepy enough to take a nap. He’d been tired for days, but could scarcely put his head down when he would suddenly jerk awake, hearing phantom knocking and _that voice_. The fact that there was nothing tangible to hang his fears on was disturbing. Maybe he was going mad.

The weather was chilly, but pleasant, and it felt good to stretch his legs. On the second lap around the park, he decided he was bored enough to pull out his phone and call Lestrade.

“Cold cases,” he said. “Anything. Please.”

The DI was silent for a long moment. “You all right, Sherlock?”

“I’m not all right— I’m bored,” he replied. “My brain is going to consume itself if you don’t give me something to do.”

“Fine, I’ll have some files dropped off. Just don’t… you know.”

“I am not in danger of lapsing,” he replied. “Not as long as you keep me busy.”

As he ended the call, he was approaching Montague Street. He turned the corner just in time to see his building explode. Bricks and window frames flew, car alarms went off, and people screamed. As the dust settled, the sirens began, and soon the street was filling with police cars and emergency vehicles. For a several minutes he stood there, dumbfounded and unable to move. Then he watched as his floor fell onto the floor below, and that collapsed onto the sidewalk, sending another cloud of dust and random paper flying skyward. The chimneys stood like lone sentinels of the disaster.

“Excuse me,” he said, pushing through the police tape that was being stretched around the debris by men in hardhats. “I live here.”

“Can’t go through until we’ve checked for structural damage,” an officious cop said.

He waited an hour, watching dust-covered people helped out of the surrounding buildings. Of Seven Montague Street, little remained. The chimneys and portions of the side walls seemed to have survived partly intact, but floors, inner walls, and ceilings had collapsed in a pile of rubble. Here and there he could see pieces of furniture stranded. Fortunately, the blast had happened in the middle of the day, when most people were at work. He recognised a few of his neighbours. An agent of the building owner arrived with a list of tenants and the police began attempting to account for each flat’s occupants.

But someone had been watching, had seen him leave his flat, timed the bombing. It was a message; whoever it was didn’t want to kill him, but was determined to let him know he was being watched. Someone ruthless, who didn’t mind the collateral damage. People had died here because someone wanted to have a conversation with him and he hadn’t opened the door.

He headed for his nearest bolthole, a place he used to frequent when he was taking drugs. There he changed his clothes. Something less conspicuous was necessary. Once he was dressed in shabby jeans, a dirty t-shirt, and a track jacket, he left.

On impulse, he turned down Bedford Place and went into John’s building. It was undamaged, but its tenants were out in the street, talking to neighbours, discussing the explosion. _Terrorists_ seemed to be the consensus. No one even glanced at him as he slipped through the security door and bounded up the stairs. He picked the lock and let himself into the flat. From the window, he could see the rubble of his own building and hear the squawk of police radios.

The flat smelled of nothing. It felt quiet, calm, safe. Someone had been in to hoover the carpets and dust surfaces. John Watson hadn’t stayed here in a long time. He went back down to the vestibule and picked the lock on the postbox. Inside he found several pieces of mail addressed to _Occupant_ and one thick envelope addressed in elegant handwriting to _Sherlock Holmes._

He held it for a moment, weighing it in his hand. Something rigid and fairly heavy was inside, padded with what felt like several layers of paper. Briefly, he thought John might have left it, but that thought was quickly dismissed. John hadn’t been here in weeks.

Whoever blew up his building must have somehow predicted he would come here, meaning that the voice at his door knew about John Watson, though he hadn’t mentioned him by name. He’d not only known that John spent the night in his flat; from his remarks, he was clearly aware that Sherlock had thought him dead. Improbable, but not impossible.

Looking around, he suddenly felt more than a little vulnerable. He took the stairs two at a time, went back into the flat, shut and locked the door. After a cursory check for surveillance, he set the envelope on the desk, adjusted the lamp and held the object up to the light, studying it. It was a rather nice, expensive stationery, probably Czech, he thought. The pen used was a Parker Duofold with an iridium nib. When he could get no more information from the outside of the object, he found a knife and slit the flap open.

What slid out of the envelope was a phone. A pink phone, to be exact— like the one in the taxi driver case, but new. He turned it on and waited.

“You have one new message.” He touched _play._ Five tones, four short, one long. The Greenwich Time signal.

“Five pips,” he muttered. “A warning.”

He stared at the phone, trying to think what he was missing. All he had so far was a warning without any clues. Surely, if this was the promised game, it would come with some rules.

A text then, two pictures: a swimming pool, a pair of trainers.

“Carl Powers,” he said. The boy who had drowned, a swimmer who wasn’t supposed to die. He remembered it because it was where he began. He had questions nobody could answer, questions nobody had thought important, and that dismissal had angered him. People were too willing to see what they wanted to see, to accept easy truths. Everything told him that the boy had been murdered.

But he hadn’t been able to prove it, or to interest anyone enough to look for evidence. The case had been closed, the cause of death declared to be a seizure, suffered while he was swimming. Sherlock wasn’t satisfied. _Where are his shoes?_ he’d asked the detective investigating the case. All the boy’s clothes were in the locker, but the shoes were missing. It meant something.

As he checked the flat for surveillance he found the shoes in one of the cupboards.

The phone signalled a new message: _the curtain rises._

Then it rang. A woman’s voice. “Hello, sexy. I’ve sent you a little puzzle…”

 

After he’d solved the second puzzle, he crashed on John’s bed, hoping to sleep for a couple hours. He woke to the sound of his own mobile ringing, groggily groped for it on the bedside table where he’d plugged it in to charge. “Sherlock Holmes,” he mumbled.

“Where the hell have you been?”

It was Lestrade, he surmised. “Busy. And I forgot to charge my mobile.”

“You could have called, you berk,” the DI said. “We dug through the rubble of your flat, looking for your lifeless body. Nice to know you didn’t die.”

“Oh.” He’d almost forgotten that his flat was bombed. “I was out.”

“Yeah, well, next time somebody blows up your flat, let me know you’re all right.”

“The likelihood of that happening any time soon—” Then it registered. “You were worried.”

“Never mind. Look, I’ve got something here I could use your help with. Where are you staying? I can come by—”

“I’ll come to you,” he said quickly.

 

“Two kidnappings, no apparent motive. The first one, a woman, lives in Cornwall. Masked men broke in and kidnapped her.” Lestrade held out a piece of paper. “Told her to phone this number, read a script. The bomb disposal team got a call twelve hours ago, found her in a car park, strapped with explosives. The second one was a young man, uni student. We found him a couple hours ago on the traffic island at Picadilly Circus. Same set-up— explosives, phone call, script.”

“And nobody’s died, correct?”

“Nobody’s died— but kidnapping is still a crime, as are explosives. And why the hell is he doing this? It makes no sense!”

“What was the number they called?” Sherlock already knew the answer.

Lestrade took out his phone, pushed the call button. “The number I’m calling right now.”

The pink phone began to buzz in Sherlock’s pocket.

“You going to get that?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed. “I was asked not to involve the police.” He took out the phone, showed the screen to Lestrade, and hung up the call.

“You know who this nut is? Or why he’s calling you?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be Moriarty. He’s given me two puzzles to solve and a deadline in each case.” He didn't mention the knocking.

Lestrade frowned. “Consulting criminal. That’s what you called him. More puzzles? Can’t you two just get past all this flirtation and have a proper date?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“If he contacts you again, Sherlock, you call me— I’m serious.”

The pink phone began to ring.

 

12 DEAD IN GAS EXPLOSION

“He killed the old lady because she started to describe him,” Sherlock explained to Lestrade. “This means that for the first time, he actually put himself in the line of fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“He organises, but doesn’t make direct contact. This time, he let the hostage hear his voice.”

“So he’s like an agent, booking crimes for those with criminal needs? _Schedule your murder now_?”

“Novel.” Sherlock looked thoughtfully into the distance. “He’s not done. Still two pips to go.”

“Insane,” Lestrade said. “He’s barmy, round the bend, bonkers.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He is, perhaps, a sociopath, but I think he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“He’s still flirting with you.”

“He wants something.”

“Why can’t he just say it then? Why not just come out with it instead of showing off? It’s like a mating display, both of you showing all your colours—”

“He’s trying to intimidate me,” Sherlock said. “He wants me to fear him before he finally reveals himself.”

“And are you? Are you afraid?” Lestrade asked. “Because you’re making me a bit nervous.”

“Why? Because you’ll be blamed?” Sherlock snorted.

“Because when people die, the public looks at us to solve it. The fact that another building just blew up means that I haven’t done my job.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Sherlock replied. “I solved it. We won. He was just trying to make a point—”

“Nobody cares how smart you are, Sherlock.” Lestrade glared at him. “People have died.”

He drew a breath, held it, let it out slowly. “I know.”

 

In all, there were five puzzles. When the last one was solved, there was silence.

Sherlock stayed in John’s flat. He paced, shouting at the pink phone occasionally, as his patience dissolved.

“What was that for?” he yelled at the walls. “A game? A test?”

The phone did nothing.

And he thought about John. If the bomber/puzzler knew about John, what might he do? He trusted that Watson knew how to look out for himself, but not being in contact with him made Sherlock edgy.

He slept in John’s flat, in John’s bed, on sheets that smelled like nothing. It was as if John Watson was no longer real, as if Sherlock had imagined him. Or perhaps it was Sherlock who was no longer real. His own flat was gone, Mycroft wasn’t responding, and Anthea had told him to stay away. And John had said _we can’t._

Awake, he remembered the things they had said to one another that night. _We are one._ It felt like _goodbye._

And he thought of the abandoned tunnel. Maybe he could investigate that.

He heard the mobile beep. _Incoming message._ Wearily, he rolled off the bed, reaching for it.

A series of pictures was downloading to the messaging app. He waited, frowning at the images as they popped onto the screen. CCTV images: John on the train, John leaving the scene of the Jones murder. Photos: John in the bar, with two women. John passed out naked on a bed in a hotel room. More surveillance: John in the hotel room looking at Mary’s dead body. John and Sherlock outside the hotel. John breaking into Sherlock’s flat. John and Mycroft in on a park bench, talking. John and Molly in the park. Molly and Sherlock in the park.

“All right,” he muttered at the mobile. “You’ve been watching him. You’ve been watching me. What the bloody hell do you want with us?”

The three dots appeared. The sender was sending something.

Another picture: Mycroft in a cell, bleeding, unconscious.

He grabbed the phone, stared at the image. Enlarged it. The photo was grainy, but there was no doubt— it was Mycroft. He’d been captured and injured.

He started to type a reply. _What are you—_

A text interrupted him. _The pool. Midnight._

 

He’d read about Carl Powers in the papers all those years ago, but he’d never been to the pool where it happened. At night, the street lights bounced off the surface of the water, flickering around the high ceiling. He heard water lapping at the sides of the pool, dripping sounds from somewhere. Chlorine filled the air.

“I’m here,” he said. “You wanted to see me.” His voice echoed in the darkness.

There was no other sound than the lapping of the water, the echoes of every tiny sound.

“Show yourself! You’ve wanted to talk for weeks. What do you want with me?”

He waited in the quiet.

Impatient, he shouted. “People have died!”

The phone beeped. Incoming text: _That’s what people do!_

“What do you want?”

Incoming message. A picture: the rooftop of a building.

He could see a church, a hotel… The Museum of London? He recognised this place. Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, Smithfield.

The phone beeped.

_I’m waiting_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Sherlock is reading is "Sleep" from Haruki Murakami's short story collection The Elephant Vanishes.


	21. Hermes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader: Please do not forget that we are in the Q-Axis, an alternate reality. Don’t let appearances fool you. Things are not what they seem. The exit is there, up ahead. A better reality awaits us. We will find it.

“Well, a father-son reunion, I see,” said Moriarty. “This makes things interesting.”

Two other men followed the Leader. At Moran’s nod, they dragged Watson and Janacek to their feet. Watson saw his partner’s eyes travel to Hamish, and then back to him. _Should have noticed,_ his expression said.

“You,” the Leader said, pointing at Watson. “You keep getting in my way, John, forcing me to make difficult decisions. I am not happy.”

Watson met his gaze. “We all do what we have to do, yeah?” he said. No point in begging for anything now. Whatever the madman was going to do, Watson had zero choice about it. Nevertheless his mind spun, looking for a solution.

“Indeed,” said Moriarty. “Perhaps you can make the choice this time, Ian MacLeod. Or whatever you call yourself when you’re not playing spy games. Of the three of you, only you are useful to me at this point.” He gestured at Hamish with the gun he held. “This one is a traitor.” He pointed the gun at Janacek. “And this one is just a nuisance.” He turned the gun on Watson. “Decide. Which one shall I kill?”

“Me,” said Hamish. “Kill me.”

The Leader arched his eyebrows. “Ah, how noble! You were a shite father who marketed your son and daughter to child molesters, and now you are willing to sacrifice yourself. Interesting. I suppose you think he’ll enjoy seeing your brains blown out.” He nodded at Janacek. “And what do you have to say in your defence?”

Raising his head, Janacek calmly looked into the eyes of the madman. “I have always been ready to die for Queen and country. You are a criminal who harms children and needs to be stopped. I do not regret anything I have done, and do not expect any mercy.”

Moriarty nudged Watson. “Interesting, don’t you think? It’s like one of those bake-off shows. Which one do you think will make the lovelier corpse? Let’s make it more suspenseful, shall we?” He put the gun in Watson’s hand. As soon as he did, Moran held the muzzle of his gun against Watson’s temple. “Shoot one of them. I don’t care which. If you don’t make a choice, they both die. Your father obviously has it coming. Terrible man. On the other hand, Holmes, like any good spy, is prepared to die. And he clearly doesn’t want you to have to commit patricide. That would be an ugly memory for both of you to live with. And don’t even think of shooting yourself. Moran’s finger is itching to do it for you.”

Watson hesitated. He could not shoot Janacek. Nor could he shoot his own father, in spite of what he had done. How could he live with the memory of putting a bullet between his eyes? It would make him not an assassin, but a murderer. No better than the man who killed his sister and left her to rot, the man who’d sold him to men. No better than the man currently holding a gun to his temple. But if there were a chance that Moriarty would let one of them live…

“Ian,” said his father. The look in his eyes said, _I forgive you. Just do it._

He forced himself to remember all his anger, all the terrible things his father had done, but the only memory that would surface was walking the beach at Stornoway, his hand in his father’s as he played in the waves. _Hold my hand, Ian._

He raised the gun, pointed it at his father’s head, took a deep breath, and fired.

For a moment, he went blank. His hand was numb and he trembled, feeling as if he would faint. When his vision cleared, his father lay dead on the ground.

Moriarty giggled. “You owe me twenty quid,” he said to Moran. “I knew he’d shoot the child molester.” He turned to Janacek. “Now that Ian has narrowed down the choices, it’s my turn.” He raised the gun, pointing it at the man’s forehead.

“No—” Watson began. _Madmen don’t negotiate. They just play games._ “Let me.”

Moriarty arched his eyebrows. “Well, now I’m interested. What can you possibly be planning?” He lowered the gun. “Two possibilities, I think. First: you’re going to try to shoot me. Boring. Second possibility: you’re going to shoot yourself. Am I right?” He raised the gun again, aiming at Watson’s forehead. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to let you kill yourself. Your massage skills are too brilliant to waste.” He gestured to Moran. “Take the gun away.”

Moran stepped towards him, reaching for the gun. For a second, Watson thought about shooting him. The reality was that they were both going to die anyway. This was a game, and neither he nor Janacek was in a position to end it.

“Please,” Watson said. “Please.”

“You’re begging?” The Leader paused, frowning slightly. “What are you willing to do, in return for this man’s life?”

“Anything. Keep me. Let him go.”

“And do you really think that a madman like me would keep such a promise?” He turned to Moran. “What do you think?”

“Shoot’m both.”

“I could let him shoot his partner. Shooting his father wasn’t nearly dramatic enough.” He sighed. “This is becoming a bore. I feel a migraine coming on andI’m impatient.”

Janacek looked at Watson, his face composed and a bit sad. “Alex, it’s all right.” He smiled.

Moriarty raised his gun and fired it.

“No!” Watson screamed. “Oh, God!” He fell to his knees, pulling his partner into his arms. For a moment, the dying man seemed able to recognise Watson, and his smile grew fond. As he opened his mouth to speak, his eyes dimmed.

“That was much more dramatic,” he heard Moriarty say.

Watson sobbed, rocking the body, feeling the warmth leave it. Then he felt arms pulling him away, dragging him to his feet once more. In the grip of Moran’s strong hands, he was forced to stand facing Moriarty, still convulsed with grief.

“Hermes,” the Leader said. “You have led two men to their deaths today. You see why I can’t kill you, don’t you? We are a pair: I am death and you are my angel.”

 

He woke several hours later in his cold cell, feeling as if he’d been drugged. His shirt, soaked with Janacek’s blood, had dried stiff. He lay on the narrow cot, hugging himself. There was no plan now, no need to imagine what might come next. The Leader would never let him go.

He wondered how Anthea had fared, whether she had been captured as well. He wondered who would tell her about her husband. _So many mistakes_ , he thought. _How was I so careless?_ Not only he, but Janacek, though he could hardly blame him for trying another way to get inside. The entire operation had failed.

Once again he wondered, as he had so often, what was happening in that parallel world on the XY axis. If he ever got out of here, he vowed, he would find that underground tunnel and see where it led. But there was little chance of that happening at this point.

As he wept, he imagined a hand touching his. _Sherlock,_ he thought. Save Sherlock.

 

There was light coming under the door when he woke again. Lying there in a bloody t-shirt, he felt numb and slightly cold.

The door opened. “Wake up, Hermes,” Moriarty sang. “Time to go forth and lead more corpses down the road to Hades. Helloo! That’s me— Hades!” He smiled at Watson. “Get yourself together. Time to go!”

Watson sat up slowly. “I thought you were keeping me.”

“No, I can pick you up any time I want,” he said. “I need you in the field now, Agent Hermes. Go forth, lead the people to their deaths!”

 

They put him in a car, drove him into London, let him out in front of his flat. As soon as the car had driven off, he went around the corner to Montague Street. He had to warn Sherlock, tell him his brother was dead, that Moriarty had shot him.

He saw hazard tape as he approached Number Seven. Stopping in his tracks, his mouth fell open. The building was gone, hollowed out to a shell by some kind of explosion. Only rubble remained.

 

He had never seen Anthea cry before. Much as he hated being the one who had to tell her what had happened, it was only right. What had happened was his fault.

“You’re not responsible,” she said. “Don’t even think it. He has always understood the odds.”

He nodded. Parading his own guilt would be unfair to her. Right now, she needed to mourn her husband, not reassure his partner. “He wanted you to know that he loved you, and that he was happy to meet his end that way, doing his duty. You know how brave he was. He was thinking of you at the end. I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” She smiled through her tears. “Poor John. You were like a brother to him, you know. He loved you.”

He said nothing, allowed the tears to escape his eyes. They put their arms around one another and held on.

When he could finally speak again, he said, “Where is Sherlock? I need to tell him.” _Please don’t be dead. She would have told me if he were…_ “I saw what happened on Montague Street. He’s not…” He couldn’t say it.

She shook her head. “Not dead. But I don’t know where he is. He was out when the building blew up. In all the confusion, we lost track of him.”

“It was Moriarty,” John said.

“No evidence that he’s connected. Gas leak, they said.”

“It wasn’t. Sherlock knows something about him. He asked me when we met in the park.”

She looked thoughtful. “You’re thinking that Moriarty might use him to get to you?”

“I honestly don’t know. The man is insane.” He didn’t want to explain to Anthea how he’d made a game out of killing Jan, forcing Watson to choose, then gleefully putting a bullet into Jan’s forehead. He might do the same with Sherlock if he got the chance. “I have to find him and warn him.”

Anthea nodded absently. “Yes, of course.”

“Will you be all right?”

She lay a hand on his face. “I’ll be fine, John. I’m glad you’re okay. Please be careful.”

 

 _Where would Sherlock have gone?_ He didn’t know the man’s habits well enough to predict. And if Anthea didn’t know, he wasn’t sure who he could ask.

 _Molly._ He headed for the hospital. She was in the morgue, doing paperwork, when he found her.

He gave her a tight smile. “Looking for Sherlock. You’re his friend, right?”

She frowned. “John. You know people are looking for you, don’t you?”

“That’s why I need to talk to Sherlock.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Right. Of course you know him. But I haven’t seen him,” she said. “He was in to look at a body last week. That makeover woman, Connie Price. But he hasn’t been back.”

“Did you know his flat blew up?”

She looked shocked. “That was his building?”

He nodded. “Do you have any idea where he would be staying?”

“At his brother’s house, maybe.”

“Not there.”

“Have you tried his mobile?” she asked.

“I don’t have his number.”

Molly opened her phone, pressed the keypad. After a minute she spoke. “Sherlock, this is Molly. Can you give me a call? It’s important.” She turned to Watson. “It went straight to voicemail. And he’s not very good about responding to messages.”

“Who else might know?”

“You might try Lestrade. He’s got Sherlock on speed-dial. If anyone knows where he is, it would be Greg. I can give you his number.”

He winced. “I don’t personally know the man.” _But I’m pretty sure he’d recognise me._ “Would you mind giving him a call and asking? And— if you don’t mind— don’t mention who’s asking.”

She nodded, made the call. After greetings and questions, she shook her head at John. “He said he’s been in touch with Sherlock, but doesn’t know where he’s staying. He assumed he was at his brother’s house.”

“I just came from there.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look, if you hear from him, will you please let me know? It’s important.”

She handed him her phone. “Here’s his number. Maybe if _you_ leave him a voicemail he’ll answer.”

It was a walk back to his flat, but he needed to think, and walking was a good way to do that. As he approached Bedford Place, a black car pulled up beside him. For a moment, he imagined that it was Janacek. His eyes stung and his throat tightened.

The window slid down. Moran. “Get in. Leader needs you.”

 

The car stopped in front of a hotel. It was the same hotel where Llewellyn Jones had been sent to his final rest. He followed Moran through the front doors, to the elevator. Third floor.

Moriarty was lying on the bed in room 317, wearing a black fleece pullover and trousers, when Watson entered the room. The lights were dim. “Welcome back, Hermes,” he said. “I have a job for you.”

“You have a migraine,” Watson said. “You want me to fix it.”

“It’s threatening, but that can wait.” He didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and regular. If he hadn’t spoken, Watson would have guessed that he was asleep.

“What job?” He said after the silence had gone on for several minutes. “What do you want me to do?”

“You were drawn into this Q-Axis for one purpose,” Moriarty said at last. “To kill me. I’m curious. Will you?”

Watson shook his head. “As soon as I do, your guards will kill me. No, thanks. Much as I’d love to kill you, I think I’ll pass on the opportunity. Clearly, it’s a set up.”

“No set up,” Moriarty replied. “Let me tell you something. Perhaps this will change your mind. Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

“What? No!”

“Well, not just yet. We have an appointment. If you do not kill me, I will go to meet him and convince him to kill himself.”

“You’re mad. How do you expect to do that?”

“By telling him the truth— that you are dead.”

“Do I look dead?” He laughed. “I really don’t feel dead, you know.”

“But you are. In this reality, the Q-Axis, you died before the age of ten, killed by your own father.” He chuckled. “Rather a twist of fate that you returned to kill him.”

“Well, then this reality must have changed. A dead man can’t kill his own murderer.”

“You yourself said it: things aren’t supposed to change like that. You are here for one purpose: to restore the balance of the universe.”

“By killing you? You have a rather high opinion of yourself if you think the fate of the universe depends on you.”

“It depends not only on me, but on you as well, John Watson. I know you think of yourself as a common man, and you are. But you find yourself in a most uncommon situation, as do I. If you are unwilling to kill me—”

“Why do you want me to kill you?”

Moriarty smiled. “You do not fear death, Captain Watson. Why does it surprise you that I am also unafraid to die? Perhaps we both understand death better than ordinary people. You think I planned to be an agent of evil? I am what the universe has made me. My death will make this world a better place, will it not?”

“You’re quite the humanitarian,” he said.

“Just selfish, really. Living here… it’s going to be rather boring without you and Holmes.”

“So, I just kill you and walk out of here? Is that what you think will happen? Moran’s right outside the door with his two thugs. Do you think they will just wish me a pleasant night if I walk out of here?”

“I have told them that you are giving me another treatment, instructed them not to disturb me for two hours after you depart. Knock on the door twice before you open it and they will know to let you leave.”

“And when they discover you’re not asleep?”

“If you prefer, there is a Glock 19 over there, on the table, my own weapon. I don’t play with guns myself, but my guards insist that I be armed when alone. I’m sure you will enjoy putting a bullet into their brains on your way out. Moran certainly has it coming to him.In any case, in two hours you will be gone. What I mean is, you will have left the Q-Axis. Surely you’ve thought of it before. You know where the exit is. The only thing holding you back has been Sherlock.”

“So, if I kill you, he lives.”

“Yes. He will continue here, in the Q-Axis. You will leave, and the axis will reset. It will be as if you were never here. Sherlock will go back to mourning you, spend the rest of his life wishing that he had spoken up that day at the school, that he had told his teacher what really happened. If he had, you would not have been removed, and therefore would not have died. He knows this, and will always carry that with him.” Moriarty smiled. “Yes, he loves you. He’s never forgotten that moment. He has lived in its shadow all his life.”

He fell silent, contemplating what Moriarty had said. “What about Mycroft Holmes? Will he live when this axis resets?”

“He died in the line of duty. No undoing that. So, Doctor, who will die today? Kill me, and Sherlock will not kill himself. Spare me, and he will die.”

“But, there are other axes— other realities. Couldn’t we end up together in one of those?”

“Anything is possible, but most things are not probable, statistically. And nothing is certain. It will be difficult. My people will attempt to carry on my work here after I'm dead. They will kill both you and Sherlock if you attempt to reunite here.” He sighed. “There is only one reality for each of us, John. It’s not like a train, where you can get off at different stops until you find one you like.But I offer you this chance, a very good one. You will both survive. You will have your reality, the one you are supposed to have, and he will have his.”

“Are there realities where we’re together? Where we might meet now, as adults?”

“I doubt it. There are infinite realities, but most of them will not bring you together. In some realities, you die as a child; in others, you die in Afghanistan. In most of those worlds where you live, he would be dead, probably of an overdose. Or he might kill himself some other way. The moment you met changed him. He lives because you died. He will stay alive for many years in order to repay that debt he feels he owes you.”

“How can I believe what you’re telling me is true? How do you even know all of this?”

Moriarty laughed softly. “Once, I was a mathematician. The concept of parallel realities is something I have studied extensively. While it is difficult to test the existence of other universes than our own, I have produced some theoretical proofs, and believe I am not far from a less speculative, more convincing proof. In fact, you may be able to help me with that.”

“In other words,” Watson said, “I should take this all on faith because you’re a badass mathematician. And this is all part of some insane experiment.”

Moriarty shrugged. “The consequences of you believing me or not are about to play out. I have an appointment with Sherlock in thirty minutes. He’s just left your flat and is on his way to the hospital. If I don’t show up, he will wait, perhaps, but then give up and return to your flat. You, however, will cease to exist by then. You’ve been here too long already— time is beginning to warp. Can’t you feel it? You are not meant to be here, and so you must leave. If you stay, the consequences will be disastrous. Sorry, no tearful goodbyes for you and Sherlock.”

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m going to kill you now.”

 

He prepared the needle, used his fingers to find the spot where it needed to go. Moriarty was quiet under his hands. His voice was calm when he spoke. “Au revoir, John Watson. I do not say goodbye, as I am certain we will see one another again, on whatever axis we find ourselves.”

His hands were steady as the needle slid into Moriarty’s brain stem, stopping his autonomic functions. His heart ceased to beat, his lungs no longer drew air. John waited a few minutes out of habit, holding the gauze on the spot where the needle had gone in. He felt the warmth begin to leave the body. A terrible man, a brilliant man, an insane one. Now he was just a collection of matter.

He remembered the moments in Afghanistan where he felt his own life beginning to slip away. He hadn’t seen any white light or heard voices of loved ones urging him towards it. He just felt the pain growing further away, less intense; he remembered peace.

“More than you deserve,” he told the body. “I should have shot you in the gut and watched you bleed out.” He could think of even worse ways to die, but he didn’t feel very vindictive. He just felt exhausted.

Finally, he rose, leaving the body where it was, on the yoga mat he’d spread under him. He went to the loo, washed his face and dried it. Looking in the mirror, he could see no sign that he was any less real. _You will cease to exist._ Maybe his creeping fatigue was the beginning of that.

He knocked twice, quietly, and opened the door. Behind him, the room was dark, Moriarty’s body still on the floor. Moran was gone. The two guards nodded at him.

 

Moriarty was dead. John might be dead, too, as Moriarty had explained, but he wasn’t about to give up on Sherlock. He would find him and together they would leave the axis through the abandoned tunnel. First, he would make sure the exit was still there. In a world where dead men could kill people, he wasn’t sure how this magic worked. Magic was the only word he could find for things that made so little sense.

He boarded the train and got off at Russell Square. The station was nearly deserted, so there was no one to object when he began walking into the tunnel. The walkway was narrow, being designed only for maintenance workers, but he had the torch on his mobile to light his way. This was how he did it last time; the tunnel would be closeby.

It was a much longer walk than he remembered; after he’d walked for twenty minutes, carefully clinging to the railing, he began to lose hope. When he got to Holborn, he knew he’d missed it. He made his way back, walked all the way to Russell Square, feeling along the wall. There was no abandoned tunnel. It had disappeared. No options now.

 _What will happen_ , he wondered as he went out through the station entrance. Sherlock might have gone to meet Moriarty, but by now he surely would have given up and left. Then where would he go? He needed to find Sherlock, talk to him about all of this.

An unreasonable panic was taking hold of him.

He opened his phone and pushed the number. When it beeped, he left a message. “Sherlock, it’s John. Where are you? Call me, please.”

As he rang off, his phone buzzed. Opening it, he saw a text from Molly.

_He’s here_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to spend a lot of time riding underground trains and els in New York and Chicago. I have not ridden the Underground in London. References in this story to emergency exits, maintenance walkways, and abandoned underground tunnels are entirely a product of my imagination.


	22. In Limbo

On the rooftop of St Bart’s, Sherlock waited. He had no idea what Moriarty wanted to say to him. He’d never seen the man, and was naturally curious. Had he actually stood outside Sherlock’s flat door, knocking, talking to him? There was no shadow, no camera footage to prove or disprove his existence. The bomb threats had used other people’s voices. It was almost as if Moriarty were a being without substance, a ghost. He must have corporeal hands and feet, though, to do all the things he seemed to have done. There was nothing insubstantial about the deaths he had caused.

He heard the voice before he saw the man. Soft, an Irish lilt to it. Recognising it, Sherlock’s guts clenched. Even on the rooftop, the cold air blowing around him, he felt a trickle of nervous sweat run down his sides.

“Hello, Sherlock.” The man stood in the shadows.

“Let me see you.”

Moriarty took another step forward, into the light. Medium height, dark hair and eyes, slim build, expensive suit. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr Holmes.”

“I’m not sure I can say the same,” Sherlock replied. “Are you alone?”

“More alone than I will ever be.” He smiled. “Shall we talk?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have nothing to say to you. Not sure why you’ve been trying so desperately to get my attention. Here I am, so talk.”

“You have questions.” The smile turned chilly, the lips curling. “You’re actually wondering whether I’m real.”

“The game, Mr Moriarty. You summoned me here. What’s this about?” His voice sounded even, but inside, tension was fraying his nerves. The weeks of intimidation had ground down his confidence, he supposed, but he would not let this man see him cower.

Moriarty shook his head slowly. “I’m disappointed in you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re boring, like everybody else. I thought you were different, but it turns out you can be intimidated like any ordinary person. Now, John Watson— there’s a man worth intimidating.”

“Yes, I know you’ve been following him. What does he have to do with me?”

The dark eyes went wide with surprise. “Why, everything! He’s the reason you’re still here. If you hadn’t met him, you’d have killed yourself by now. And when you found out he was dead, you might have killed yourself, but you didn’t. You owe him something, and you can never pay that debt.”

“What do you want with him?”

Moriarty sighed. “Don’t be dull, Sherlock. Very well, I’ll explain. Let’s talk about the universe. Not the solar system, which might be boring to a mind like yours, one with limited capacity. I want to talk about time and space. And mathematics. I know you haven’t deleted maths. That was always your best subject, wasn’t it? John knows. He understands, thanks to you.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I observe, and I deduce,” he replied patiently. “You tell me everything I want to know without saying a word. You don’t think you trust me, but you do. You’re more curious than scared. You want an explanation, and you believe I can provide one.”

“Are you trying to kill John?”

Moriarty gave a short huff of laughter. “Of course not. He’s trying to kill me.”

“That’s his job, to hunt down evil people, like you. People who enslave children—”

“He started it.” The madman frowned petulantly. “Even before Llewellyn Jones, he was getting in the way. He and your brother. I can deal with Mycroft; he’s too cool-headed for his own good, lacks the necessary rashness to be a really excellent agent of good. But John— he possesses the perfect combination of recklessness, cold-bloodedness, and passion— the perfect avenging angel. Unfortunately, he doesn’t belong here.”

Sherlock felt a spike of panic. “What does that even mean— _he doesn’t belong here?_ You said you would explain. I’m still waiting for you to do that.”

“You’re right, I did say that.” Moriarty gave him an apologetic smile. “You’re here, and there is no further need to taunt you. I owe you an explanation, and I shall do my best. But you must not be dull, Sherlock. I’m a very good teacher, but you must pay attention to my words. Are you listening?”

Resigned, Sherlock nodded. “Explain.”

The man paced a bit, walking to the edge of the roof, peering over, then turning and strolling back to where Sherlock stood. “John Watson is dead. Oh, don’t look shocked. That happened years ago, when he was a child.”

He felt something swoop in his gut, as if he had walked off the edge of reality. “No, he’s not dead. I’ve seen him, talked with him—”

“But you remember it, don’t you? You saw the photos, read the file, went to his grave. The evidence was there. And you did not doubt it until Ian MacLeod appeared, knowing things no one could have known.”

“Yes, I saw him, talked to him.” Sherlock thought back to the night of the storm, remembered the things they had said. He’d been real, solid flesh in his arms— and real again, in the park, where he had held John as if he might vanish like a ghost. John Watson was real. “I don’t understand how, but he isn’t dead anymore. I must have…” It was hard to admit, but the only possible explanation. “I hallucinated his death.”

“No, no, you didn’t. He really is dead. The John you met is _your_ John, but he should not be here. He is, in truth, something of a shadow, drawn into this world because of you.”

“What do you mean, _because of me_?”

“Because you love him. And he loves you. This draws you together, across every axis. He would give his life for you, and has. You would do the same for him.”

“He loves me?” Time came to a sudden halt.

Moriarty shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “He has always thought of you, ever since you were nine years old and beset by bullies. That moment, when he defended you, and when you took his hand, created a bond between you. That bond survived his death, crossed the borders of every reality. In his own world, he created a refuge in his mind where he hides when reality is too much. In Afghanistan, when the bombs were dropping, he ran to that other reality he seeks. He imagines the two of you growing up together, being together. Sometimes, that unfulfilled wish is all that keeps him going.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, biting his lip to suppress the sob that threatened to come out. For several minutes he could not speak. When he finally opened his eyes, Moriarty was patiently watching him.

“You have experienced the same, have you not? You’ve created a room in your Mind Palace, a place where you go when you need him. In your darkest moments, you reach out for his hand.”

“But he _is_ dead, in this reality?”

“Yes, it’s true. This reality became distorted when he arrived here. He did not deliberately seek it out, but his entry into this world has changed it. Reality has adjusted around his presence. He has named it the Q-Axis, because so much is different from the reality he remembers. It’s a question mark in his mind. He understands that there are different realities; that much he has figured out. You’ve noticed it as well, but being a more logical, less fanciful person, you’ve refused to acknowledge it, except for that one night when you were together. Your bond strengthened that night.”

“What sort of bond is this?”

“He is powerfully drawn to you, as you are to him. It isn’t as if he consciously wished to find a way here. It sounds sentimental, and I know you despise sentiment, but his heart led him here. In a sense, you are as responsible as he is. You longed for him. It almost killed you when you learned he had died. This pain, this terrible grief, he knows. He came because you called him. He needs you. You fight the same battle, but alone, you cannot win. Together, you are an antiviral against evil, so to speak. He doesn’t know it, but this is why he came here. You must be together in order to restore balance.”

“What balance?”

“You’re not a religious man, Sherlock. Neither am I. Nevertheless, we both can see that there are forces in this world, primeval forces that lead to order or chaos, darkness or light— God or the Devil, if we use the language of religion. Strip all the layers of morality from the concept, and you can see these as elemental forces. When one gains power, the other must compensate. We are all agents of one force or the other. John’s work is to bring the light. Mine, alas, is to bring chaos.” Moriarty smiled rather sadly. “We all have our duties.”

“Are you saying that he came here accidentally, and now must leave?”

“I am saying that his work is done. He found you, and has accomplished what he needed to do.”

“And what has he accomplished?”

“My death.”

“Your death?” He knew that John would not hesitate to kill Moriarty, or anyone on the side of evil, but here was the man who ran a trafficking network, calmly sitting here, talking about good and evil. He did not look dead, not even a little bit.

“My death restores the balance. John’s shadow here has already faded. He is not part of this reality any longer.”

This was almost unbearable. “He was real. We were together. Are you saying that this can never be? We will only ever be a memory to one another?”

“He died. You survived.”

“This is nonsense,” Sherlock said, turning away. He looked across the city, where lights were beginning to wink on in the twilight. “You’re delusional.”

“I am completely rational,” Moriarty replied. He walked back into Sherlock’s field of vision, stood before him with his arms folded. “Mathematics is my field. At six, I was a prodigy who had figured out calculus on his own. At the age of seventeen, I was positing theories about parallel realities. Just theories, of course, without any real-world applications. Theoretical mathematicians rarely get their hands dirty in the real world. Do you remember the July Bombings?”

“Of course. Did you do that?”

“No, there were men who did that, but they were just the hands. It was caused by an imbalance. Entropy, a tendency towards chaos, did that.” He snorted. “Oh, can’t you see? You refuse to see. The pendulum swings. There are only a few extreme agents in this world. They move the pendulum while the great ordinary masses follow, back and forth. Now it’s the conservatives, now the liberals. Now everyone wants war, now they long for peace. Progression, reaction. Balance lasts only for a moment before the other side pushes; imbalance is the usual condition. I contribute to that. You contribute, and John Watson contributes. He has changed the direction here, restored the balance, which is why he has now left.”

Sherlock felt a sudden flare of anger. “You think you’re simply the hands of evil, that you have no will of your own? You’re a person, not a pawn, a human being who choses to traffic children and kill people who try to stop you. This is not about fate. It’s about resisting evil.”

Moriarty shook his head. “Where there is light, shadow exists. Where one grows strong, the other compensates. They cannot exist without one another. I am just a piece of the maelstrom, not the cause of the storm. It is a cycle: the pressure falls, and it rises.”

“You said you were dead,” Sherlock said. “How is it that I can see you?”

The dark eyes were were both sad and amused. “Because you are also dead. Go, have a look.” Moriarty gestured towards the parapet.

Sherlock could see flashing lights from below. He walked to the edge and looked down. A body lay on the ground below, having fallen from a great height. He could see a pool of blood around the head. The arms and legs were lying at unnatural angles, obviously broken.

“That’s me. Did I jump?”

Moriarty nodded. “John is leaving this axis. Things are returning to what they would have been. It’s been happening for a while, but now the transition is almost complete. The despair you felt three years ago when you learned of his death, the grief that led you into drug abuse— though you tried to overcome it, you could not. It became too painful to bear. Your brother kept you from that ledge for a long time. Though he never knew what grieved you, he saw it and tried to protect you. It was learning of his death that sent you over.”

He felt curiously light, as if a breeze could waft him into the sky. As if he could fly. “I don’t remember.”

“No one knows what death is until they actually die. Your death was sudden. If you think about it, you may remember standing on the ledge.”

He thought of his dreams, standing in a high place, looking down, seeing John below, watching… “What happens now?”

“That depends.” Moriarty smiled. “Strictly speaking, you are in Limbo. As am I. There isn’t any afterlife, not as most people conceive of it.”

“Then what is this? How are we talking? How is my body both down there, on the sidewalk, as well as up here, on the roof?”

“The only reality that exists is the one where you exist. Currently, you are between worlds, but soon, you must enter another axis. One world fades as another is realised. Those other worlds have ceased to be, as if they never were. Most people don’t remember them; they can’t, or they would go mad.”

He looked at Moriarty; understanding began to spill into his mind, a flood coming from some dark well in his unconsciousness. “Do you remember other worlds?”

“I do.” He gave Sherlock a weary nod. “I remember them all.”

“How?”

“I am gifted with a peculiar form of madness. Believe me, it’s a curse, having a memory like mine.” He smiled, but did not explain.

“When I leave here, will I remember this world? Will I remember _him_?” If he could at least remember John, maybe he could seek him out.

“What you remember will fade into the new. You will remember for a while, and you will grieve the loss, but one day you will wake up and those memories will seem like dreams. Soon, they will fade entirely. John will experience the same thing.”

He looked over the edge of the building again. The body on the pavement was gone. No blood, no flashing lights, no crowd of bystanders. It was a normal evening in the city, traffic sounds floating up to where he stood. The sun had just set, its rays reflecting off the Thames as they receded over the horizon. “This isn’t real,” he said, turning.

Moriarty was gone.

 

He walked. An hallucination, he decided, brought on not by drugs, but by his overtired and stressed brain. The puzzles, the voice, the texts— all of it had sent him over the edge. He reached into his pocket to find the pink phone, the source of all his trouble. Instead, his hand found his own phone. He pushed the home button. Dead. _Just like me._

No pink phone. He’d lost his mind.

When he turned onto Montague Street, he remembered. He had no place to live. His building had blown up a few days earlier. He remembered the walls caving in, the floors collapsed on one another, the dust and debris, the hazard tape, the police radios squawking, the people standing huddled, amazed…

He stopped, speechless. Seven Montague Street was not a pile of rubble. It had not blown up. It stood as it had always stood, a slightly aged, shabby block of flats. Even the explosion, apparently, had been part of his delusion.

He let himself into the building, climbed the stairs and opened the door of his flat. Looking up and down the corridor, he remembered a voice, talking through the door, and shuddered. He shook his head, clearing the disturbing memory from his consciousness. Just a trick, an illusion. He stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him.

The flat was as he’d left it. Taking in the clutter, he wondered if it was time to find a new place to live. Something larger. Maybe he’d need a flatmate to afford it.

Exhaustion was claiming his limbs. He didn’t even bother with a cup of tea— or something stronger. He went into the bedroom, pulled off his clothes, and crawled between the sheets. A few hours of sleep would put him right.

Just as he drifted off, he smelled the bedding. _John._

 

He was alone, on a train. The dream he’d always had, since he was a child.

It was an unusually vivid dream. The rattling of the train, the squealing of the brakes as it rounded corners, the smell of oil and grime— all of these were more real than any dream he’d had previously. He tried to remember how he’d ended up on this train, where he’d been going, but in vain. _This isn’t real._

Standing up from his seat, he started to walk the length of the car. He opened the door into the next car just in time to see the door ahead of him close. _Not alone_ , then.

He walked a little faster, but when he opened the door at the end of the car, the door into the car ahead was just closing. He caught a glimpse of a man’s leg disappearing as the door shut.

He hurried on, breaking into a trot, but almost lost his balance as the train turned. The lights went off for a second, then flashed on again. He heard a door close ahead of him.

He ran now, grabbing onto seat backs and standing poles to keep his balance, hurrying to see who was ahead of him. This time, he glimpsed the back of the man. He had a limp, carried a cane.

“Wait!” he called. The door slammed. He ran ahead, determined now to catch the man with the limp. _Ian MacLeod,_ his brain supplied. _John Watson._

“John!” he cried as he pulled the next door open. Ahead of him, the man paused and began to turn.

The train lurched to a halt. The lights flickered once, then went out.

“John!” he called again. “Wait!” Then softer, his voice more anguished. “Don’t leave me.”

The emergency light switched on, casting an orange light inside the car. He was alone. The train sat in darkness.

Groping his way towards the exit, where he knew there would be some kind of release, he peered through the dirty windows, trying to see where he was. A sign: _Russell Square._

He found the handle and pulled it. The door clacked and opened an inch. Using all his strength, he forced it open all the way and climbed out, finding himself on a narrow ledge. This was the service walk, made for trainmen.

“Hello?” he called. His voice echoed as if in a cavern. Somewhere he could hear water dripping. Edging his way along the walk, he made his way towards the sound. After several yards,the tunnel branched off. Echoes told him there was an area below.

He switched on his phone’s torch and saw stairs leading down. Shining the torch ahead, he glimpsed tracks below, an abandoned tunnel. Footsteps echoed distantly. There was someone down there, in the darkness. Cautiously, he descended.

“Hello?” The echoes were less distant now. “Who’s there?”

 _Things are not what they seem._ It was Brenda’s voice that said this, he thought. A chill ran through him.

He tried to remember what John had told him. There should be a stairway, leading up to the street.

_Demon watching you. Be careful._

He felt along the wall, aiming his torch up and down, until he found it. Rickety, but there it was. It might not hold, but he needed to chance it. Carefully but quickly, he ascended. At the top there was a door.

_Remember what I said. Things will look different._

He pushed the door open.

 

Light was filtering through the curtains. It was morning, and he was in his own bed. He felt as if he’d slept for months.

Feeling groggy, he groped for his phone and pressed the home button. 8:47. He had slept, maybe dreamed, but it all was quickly receding as he reached for the scraps that floated through his mind. He tried to remember why he felt sad. Something had happened, but whatever it was escaped him. He lay still, trying to access his Mind Palace, but all he could see was a blank screen.

Tea would help. He went into his kitchen and put the kettle on. One mug sat on the counter, waiting, but all his remaining dishes were in boxes. _221B Baker Street,_ said the labels. In the sitting room, more boxes, more labels.

Right. The new flat. That was happening today, before—

His phone chimed. _I have the liver you wanted._

Molly. He’d go to St Bart’s and see her this morning, think through his experiment. Then he’d come back here, tidy up, and meet the hired truck this afternoon. It was all coming back now.


	23. Stay With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending, well-deserved.

Molly’s text was an hour ago. Being in the underground so long, his phone had been in a dead zone, unable to receive. He quickly hailed a cab and told the driver, “St Bart’s Hospital.”

He could not define what was driving his panic. Moriarty was dead. That happened hours ago. By now, though, his men would have discovered the body. They would know whom to blame, and would come after him. Or maybe they would come after Sherlock.

Moriarty’s words echoed in his mind. _Two hours_ , he’d said. _You know where the exit is._

His hands were shaking. He was still in the Q-Axis, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. Something was supposed to happen, perhaps. Or he’d messed up, lost his chance to leave, and things that were never meant to happen would happen nonetheless.

He could see the emergency vehicles flashing before he got out of the cab. Tossing money at the cab driver, he ran towards the gathered crowd.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He jumped,” a woman said. She pointed up at the roof. “From up there.”

Heart pounding, he made his way through the crowd in time to see a body being placed on a stretcher and rolled inside. _Tall, curly hair, dark coat_. Police were stationed at the entrance, keeping the crowds back. Even in the growing darkness, he could see a pool of blood on the ground. 

“Please,” he said. “I’m a doctor. He’s my— my friend.”

Molly came through the door. Their eyes met. Hers filled with tears and she shook her head.

Stunned, he turned away. He wasn’t aware he was walking, didn’t know how long he walked. When he finally noticed, he was at the park. The sun had not yet risen, but his internal clock said it soon would. He sat down on a bench, head in his hands.

Sherlock was dead. Why? Moriarty had promised— _Kill me and he will live. You will have your reality, and he will have his._ Moriarty was most definitely dead. He had made sure— no pulse, no breath. He could not have been on the roof with Sherlock, convinced him to jump.

Sherlock wasn’t dead, then. He was in another universe, one where he might never meet John. One where John might be dead. And Watson was stranded in a reality he desperately wanted to leave.

But the portal was gone. He’d tried that, had done everything as before. The train hadn’t stalled, but he’d gone along the same walkway where he’d found the tunnel before. Something had changed.

“You’ve lost your way.” An older woman was smiling at him. “You need to go down the stairs.”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before the words came out. “What did you say?”

“You went _up_ the stairs to the entrance before,” she patiently explained. “Now, you have to go _down_ , if you want to leave.”

The woman looked familiar. Long, grey hair. Shabby clothing. A homeless person. “Mrs Green?”

She patted his shoulder. “You remember the stairway. Just look for the door.” She turned and started walking away.

“Wait—” He got to his feet, feeling unsteady.

She stopped, looked back at him. “You haven’t much time, you know. Off with you, now!”

 

It was early morning, and the commuter rush was just beginning. He stood in front of the station for a few minutes, jostled by people with coffee and briefcases going around him, some of them coming up from the train, others going down.

Inside the station, he looked around, trying to remember that day, months ago, when he came up the stairway and pushed open the door into the station. There were many doors here. Which one was it?

Several doors had signs: _Staff Only._ Those doors did not open when pulled.

 _Not much time._ Forcing himself to be calm, he turned, methodically examining every square inch of the walls. It was in an alcove, he thought. Or maybe not. _Things might look different._

He closed his eyes, remembered opening the door, hearing it slam shut behind him, looking around the station, checking the time. In his mind he imagined himself turning around to look at the door, to see if it had a sign or a handle, or any distinguishing marks.

He opened his eyes. And there it was.

An unmarked door with an ordinary, round handle. When he pulled it, the door opened. The stairway was there, descending into the darkness. He went down this time, feeling his way, trying to still the pounding in his chest. When he reached the bottom, he knew he’d found it. Standing in the abandoned tunnel, he listened. He could hear trains above him.

Now what? Would passing through the tunnel be enough? Was he already in a different reality? _You have to go down if you want to leave._ He’d gone down the stairway, so he must have left the Q-Axis. In this reality, he would have to get to the surface in the ordinary way.

He walked along the edge until he reached the platform. Sleepy commuters waited, newspapers tucked under their arms. A few leaned against the large, concrete pillars, their eyes closed. Nobody looked at anyone. That was why he liked taking the train; you became part of an anonymous, amorphous mob, all traveling in tandem. Nobody noticed him.

A train pulled up to the station, its brakes squealing. The doors opened and passengers got off, heading for the stairs up to the street. He followed the crowd.

 

He walked around Russell Park for a while, getting his bearings. He realised that he wasn’t limping. In this axis, then, he hadn't been wounded in the leg. Nor did his shoulder ache. He felt under his shirt. No scar. Well, then. Luckier this time, it seemed.

He found his building on Bedford Place, looked at the names on the post boxes. Mr R Smith no longer lived here.

Thinking he would walk to Montague Street, he stepped onto the street again. He was almost afraid to look. Odds were, Sherlock Holmes didn’t live there. Maybe he’d died in this reality—

His phone chimed. Flipping it open, he saw a new text.

_Just got your message. At Bart’s morgue. SH_

_Molly says hi. SH_

 

As he walked through the doors of the hospital, someone was calling his name. “John! John Watson!”

He turned at the unfamiliar voice, saw a face he vaguely remembered.

“Mike. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

“Yes, of course. How are you?”

“I heard you were somewhere abroad, getting shot at. When did you get back?”

 _Was I shot?_ “I’m just back,” he heard himself say. “Just got here.”

Mike grinned. “Well, I know someone who’s going to be very glad to see you. He’s practically climbing the walls with anticipation.”

He was speechless for a few beats. “I’m… yes, I’m…”

Mike was chattering on. “We run into each other occasionally. When he found out I knew you, he became quite chummy. I saw him this morning, heading to the lab, so I assume he’s still there…”

Mike continued talking as they went through the lobby and pushed the _Down_ button for the lift. “Molly’s been a good friend, you know. He gets in the dumps sometimes, doesn’t talk for days on end. Well, you know how he is. She stops by the flat, brings him pastry, talks him out of it.”

 _Molly. In the park. Coffee_. He felt as if he were remembering something that had happened in a movie. He knew Molly. He’d known her since—

The lift doors slid open on the basement floor. Mike led him down the corridor towards the pathology lab. At the door, he grinned at Watson, placing a finger to his lips. “Let’s surprise him.”

He pushed open the door, and there was Sherlock, leaning over a microscope. He did not look up.

“Hey, Sherlock. I heard you were looking for a flatmate—”

“I have a flatmate, Stamford. In fact, I—” He looked up, saw John, and his face did something amazing, something John couldn’t remember seeing before. His eyes went soft and his mouth turned up in an impossible grin. Tears ran from his eyes. “John.”

Watson had no words. In two seconds he was enveloped by long arms, dark curls pressed into his neck.

Laughing and crying, Sherlock pulled away to look at him. “I thought— your plane wasn’t due until tonight! What are you doing here? I told you I’d meet you at the airport!”

He brushed tears from his eyes and groped for a word. “Surprise.”

“Welcome home.” Then Sherlock was kissing him.

Molly was smiling. “You’d think it had been years. How are you, John?”

“Fine” he said. Apparently, he was. No leg pain, no shoulder pain. Sherlock was alive, he was alive, and they were together, in the same universe.

“It _has_ been years,” Sherlock said. “Three years, two months, and fourteen days. In all that time, he came home just twice. It’s been almost a year now since we we’ve seen one another.” He smiled into John’s eyes, holding his face in his hands. “You’re not going back,” he said. “I won’t let you.”

“No,” he whispered. “Stay here.”

“I know that serving was important to you, but— no more Queen and country, no more people shooting at you. I can’t go through this again. You’re home, and you’ll stay here. You’re never leaving me again.”

“Promise,” he said. “Never again.”

“Good.” Sherlock picked up the duffle that John didn’t remember carrying. “Let’s go home.”

The cab took them by Montague Street, where men in dungarees were just loading the last boxes onto a truck. Sherlock got out of the cab and spoke to them for a minute, got back into the cab and told the driver, “221B Baker Street.”

Smiling, he put his arm around John. “We’re moving house. I hope you don’t mind, but I found a great flat in Marylebone. Much larger. The rent is a bit more. Well, a lot more. But I know the landlady and she gave me a deal. And my business has been picking up, so I figured it was time.” He looked at John. “You don’t mind, do you? I should have told you, but wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It’s fine,” Watson managed. “It’s all fine.”

The cab let them out in front of a row of Victorian terraced houses. Sherlock jumped out, handed the cabbie a few notes, and then grabbed John’s hand.

John was staring up at the building. This was their new home.

“There you are!” An older woman came through the door, arms open for a hug. “And this must be Dr Watson!”

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, throwing an arm around her shoulder and leading her towards Watson. “Yes, this is Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He’s just home from Afghanistan.”

“Welcome,” she said, pulling Watson into a hug. When she’d finished squeezing all the air from his lungs and planting a kiss on his forehead, she smiled at Sherlock. “He’s lovely. Doesn’t say much, though, does he?”

Boxes were coming out of the truck now, carried into the building by the movers.

“One floor up,” Sherlock directed them. “This way.” He bounded up the stairs and opened the door at the top. Watson followed. “I meant to have everything moved in by now. I thought I still had hours before you arrived.”

It was like turning the page in a book. The room was both unfamiliar and completely home, like a place he’d read about so many times that it felt like he’d been there. Two chairs were before the hearth, an ugly green sofa off to the side. He looked down the hallway towards the bedroom. _Our bedroom._

Mrs Hudson frowned at Sherlock. “I know you’re anxious to be alone with your soldier, but before you hide him away for days, he’ll be needing some tea. I’ll bring some up for you both. Don’t give me that look, young man,” she said to Sherlock. “Your boy hasn’t had a proper cuppa in weeks, I’ll wager. He won’t feel at home until he’s had one.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mrs Hudson.” He smiled at John as she started down the stairs. “She’s been baking for days. I hope you’re up to it.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m just a bit…”

“Jet-lagged, perhaps,” Sherlock suggested. “You look tired.”

He nodded. “Don’t quite feel like myself.” _Whoever that might be._

The long arms went around him again, pulling him close. “God, I missed you.”

Tears started in his eyes. “Missed you, too. So much.” He buried his face in Sherlock’s chest. “You have no idea.”

“Welcome home, Captain Watson.” A voice that was both familiar and dear.

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “He’s only _just_ home. We haven’t even moved in properly. Couldn’t you give us an hour or two?”

Watson stared at his old partner. He looked the same as ever— tall, the bit of a paunch that never went away, no matter how thin he was, the lanky legs, receding hairline. _Janacek._

“Not a chance,” said Mycroft, pulling Watson into a completely unexpected hug. “He’s my brother, too. Not by blood, perhaps, but by affection. You are not the only one who missed him.”

“Well, he’s _my_ husband,” said Sherlock. “You’ve had your hug. Now I want him back.”

Smiling, Mycroft released him. “How are you, John?”

“I’m.” Watson blinked. The room was getting dark. Everyone was far away, their voices muffled in a fuzzy layer of grey. “I think I’m—” He felt the floor rise up and slam into him.

 

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the ugly green sofa, looking at two Holmes brothers. Sherlock was holding his hand, patting his cheek, a worried look on his face. Mycroft was crouched beside his brother, a glass of water in his hand.

“John! Are you all right?”

“Have a sip of water, Doctor,” said Mycroft. “He’s obviously dehydrated, Sherlock. Look how pale he is. Exhaustion, I think.”

“Obviously. And he hasn’t slept. Took an earlier flight—”

He felt hands smoothing his hair, feeling his pulse.

“Stop fussing, brother mine. Give the man some air.”

“— probably hasn’t eaten in days—”

“Ah, here’s tea. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“—and jet-lagged—”

He stared at the two faces, both so dear. “I’m fine.”

And then he burst into tears.

 

That night, he lay in a familiar bed next to his husband.

“You all right?” Sherlock said, running a hand over his forehead. “You scared me, fainting like that.”

“I think I am.” He moved closer, snuggling against the narrow chest. “It feels like a dream.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “It’s not. You’re really home, at last. Do you like the flat?”

“It’s great. Space for experiments and books, everything we need.”

Sherlock hummed. “Good.”

The silence stretched out, warm and comfortable. He cast his mind back, trying to find the threads that had brought him here. He remembered Moriarty, but the compound and everything that had happened there had taken on the cast of a dream. He went further back. Mary’s murder. Waking up in a strange hotel room. The two women at the bar. Bucharest. Llewellyn Jones. The underground. The abandoned tunnel. The Q-moment.

He felt the frayed edges of his life being woven into a new fabric.

Further back. He’d been in Afghanistan. Before that, medical school. University of London. A college student agreeing to serve in the army in exchange for tuition. The years of school before that, reaching back to the moment he’d stood in an office, waiting to be sent away to another school, another foster home. The door opening. And Sherlock.

That hand had never let go of his, he now remembered. Sherlock had told the principal what happened, and they didn’t send John away. He’d gone home with Sherlock, lived with his family, grown up with him and his older brother. He remembered summers in the big house at the shore, running with dogs, riding horses, playing pirates. He remembered falling in love.

 _Light and shadow_. This world was brighter than where he’d been, but it was certain that evil still lived here. Moriarty had said, _we will see one another again…_ The real world was not perfect. If not Moriarty, there would be someone else who cast the shadow.

But it would be different here. Before, he’d always been alone.

“Do you remember?” he whispered. He slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. _We are one._

Sherlock laced his fingers between John’s and squeezed. “I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been hard to write, but I've enjoyed every minute.  
> You have questions? Please ask. In limbo, things sometimes get lost. I will try to clarify.  
> Thank you for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!


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